


Awaiting Serendipity

by Elialys



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-10-30 06:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: Season 6 AU. Dawn dies at the end of The Gift. She's erased from this world, yet traces of her linger. B/S





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a response to a challenge on Elysian Fields; categories will be added as the story progresses, and the rating will go up. It won't be anything triggering, though, I tend to keep things on the vanilla side, and I always give people a head's up at the start of chapters when necessary.
> 
> The character's death warning is for Dawn. This starts a bit dark, given the premise of the story. Nothing beyond what we saw Buffy go through when she was pulled out of Heaven, though. A huge thank you to Lilly for her beta work; all remaining mistakes are mine!

**AWAITING SERENDIPITY**

_“Nations, like stars, are entitled to eclipse. All is well, provided the light returns and the eclipse does not become endless night. Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is the same as the survival of the soul.”_ Victor Hugo 

**CHAPTER ONE**

The sound of metal hitting soft flesh resonated in the air at a steady, unnerving pace, punctuated by huffs of exertion.

Only minutes ago, these noises would have been completely drowned out, swallowed by the many sounds of battle. What remained of Glory’s minions had been knocked down by Willow’s spell, all of them now scattered on the ground, near the staircase. The rest of their group was concealed between debris and bags of plaster, helpless to do more than what had already been done.

Dawn still hadn't been saved. Something was up there with her, something strong enough to throw Spike off the tower only moments ago; none of them would be a match, only Buffy, who was still busy crushing Glory’s face in with her hammer.

Giles watched the scene from the shadows, biding his time, seemingly unperturbed by his Slayer’s wrath. In his right hand, the syringe felt heavier than it was. It had been Buffy’s idea. Not to use tranquilizer per say, but to find a way to contain Ben, was he to reemerge.

“Xander had a point,” she’d said, only minutes away from leaving the Magic Box. “I know it’s unlikely Ben will show his face again tonight, but if he does, we need to keep him down without actually killing him.”

Willow was furthest away in the room; she had been working on the Buffy Bot, oblivious to Anya’s frequent (and somewhat febrile) comments about how/if the robot survived the battle, Willow should reprogram it to walk around the town, advertising the shop to possible costumers. And despite Giles having asked him a dozen times today alone not to do it _inside_ , Spike was smoking cigarette after cigarette, slumped against a bookshelf.

Giles had offered Buffy a brief, understanding smile, “I’ll take care of Ben if he shows. You worry about Glory and Dawn.”

And she’d done so, brilliantly, as he knew she would. She’d beaten Glory to a pulp, so lost in the action that she’d administered a couple more blows before she realized the body she was smashing had morphed into its human counterpart.

At the exact moment she stilled her arms, the sky exploded with light.

Giles did not waver. He’d been expecting it, more than he was dreading it. Stepping out of concealment, he approached Buffy from behind, aware he only had seconds to act, as she was temporarily mesmerized by the sight overhead. In a smooth and swift movement, Giles plunged the needle into her neck, piercing through scar tissues left by sharp teeth and hungry men, pouring the entire content into her veins. Buffy gasped and tensed up.

But that was all.

Her body went limp, falling back against him. He lay her down onto the ground almost reverently, far away enough from Ben, murmuring a soft “I’m sorry,” meant for himself more than for her. The dose was strong, strong enough to kill a man – more precisely the dying man who lay only meters away from her, but not a Slayer at the top of her strength. She would be unconscious for a couple of hours, maybe, and by then…

By then, it would all be over.

There was no more silence punctuated by odd noises. The sky had been torn open, lightening flashed and zapped, creating doors after doors, forcing dimensions to collide. In this chaos, no one saw Giles’s action, neither betrayal of both Summers girls, girls he’d come to love as his own.

There was no other way. No one else would do this job, the dirty one, the one that would fragment his soul a little more.

Soon, he had joined Dawn at the top of the tower; she was crying in earnest, tied up by the wrists, slumped forward as blood trickled from her bare feet and into the pool of energy beneath them. When she saw him, she let out of sob of relief, but remained quiet.

Giles didn’t hesitate, using the element of surprise to his advantage, launching himself forward and pushing the demon into the void. When he regained his balance and turned to face Dawn, however, he started approaching her more slowly than anyone hoping to rescue her would have.

Something must have shown on his face, because all traces of hope vanished from her body language, replaced by pain and despair.

“You’re not going to untie me, are you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I have to untie you,” he corrected softly.

“But you won’t…save me,” she whispered, more tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping from her chin the way blood still dripped from her feet. She shook her head. “I know about the ritual, she told me about the blood. About how…it will stop it. You’re here to kill me.”

He could have lied, but what would have been the point. It certainly would not comfort either of them. “I am,” he said. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

This time, it was meant for her more than for himself. There would be no redemption for him.

But Dawn shook her head again, another silent sob shaking her body, turning into a whimper of pain. “You don’t…have to,” she wept.

“I do,” he said, “I have to stop this.”

She shook her head once more. “No, I mean…you don’t have to kill me. I’ll do it. I’ll jump.”

Giles remembered his Slayer, all these years ago, crying the way Dawn was. Telling him she was too young to die. She’d silently begged for her life, before willingly walking to her death to save the world.

Dawn was more than a fabricated sister made from Buffy’s blood, after all.

She was truly _hers._

Without another word, Giles untied her, before taking a few steps back, giving her space to do…what had to be done.

“Will Buffy be okay?” Dawn cried, clutching at her sides. “Will she…”

Giles nodded. “She will be all right.” After another pause, he added: “I believe that once the portal is closed, memories of your existence will simply…cease to be. She won’t suffer the way you both did when your mum died. She will find peace, and so will you. She will live, thanks to you,” he concluded.

If anything else, that last part was true.

Dawn nodded, crying too hard to be able to speak. She turned around to face the rising sun. Staring into the emerging light, she steadied her breathing, regaining control.

Readying herself.

“Tell her I love her, okay?”

And she let herself fall.

…

_The air smelled of cotton candy._

_It smelled of late summer afternoons, when stifling heat-waves have receded, making place to warm twilight and its shifting skies. There even was a cool breeze rustling nearby trees, bringing forth the sounds of laughter and…another smell. More floral than sweet, although bitter than it used to be._

_On and on it went, round and round, and round and round._

Ring around the rosy

A pocketful of posies

_She could hear her laughter every time it came around, closer, nearer, almost within grasp…yet she remained out of reach, just slightly, the carved animals losing shape, losing consistency._

_“She’s okay, Buffy.”_

_Buffy looked away from the blur of the merry-go-round, away from the unsubstantial glow from which the laughter was coming, her vision sharpening as she met her mother’s eyes._

_Kind, warm, and loving, with a barely concealed worry in their depth, the way they’d always been._

_“I’ll look after her, until the carousel stops turning,” Joyce said. “I’ll look after her for you. One-four-seven rounds to go.”_

Buffy woke up.

…

Her first conscious thought was that she was alive; therefore, so was the world.

For one thing, there was a buzzing in her ears she’d come to associate with apocalypses nearly averted, when everything became too quiet again after being so loud.

That, and the feeling of two hands having reached down inside her chest, squeezing and _squeezing_ upon her heart and lungs, until she had no more breath, no more anything.

Buffy sat up upon her bed, her whole body quivering as a wave of nausea washed through her, her brain struggling with the sudden change in position. She grimaced, eyes closed shut, clenching at the bedding for support, commanding her metabolism to steady itself, now aware as well of the headache that pulsed within her skull, following the rhythm of her heart.

She made to stand up, but two warm hands pressed down upon her shoulders. The fact that these evidently small hands managed to keep her seated said a lot about the state of her muscles.

“Easy there, Buffy. Give yourself a minute.”

Buffy shook her head, which did nothing to ease neither headache nor nausea. She opened her mouth to speak her sister’s name, but no sound came out, the fists clutching her lungs having moved up to her throat, twisting her vocal chords.

She forced herself to breathe as deeply as she could, forced the air down through her constricted windpipe, only half-aware of Willow’s hands on her shoulders, her touch softer now, comforting more than it was restricting.

Moments passed. Minutes, maybe. The ringing in her ears felt deafening, even behind the thumping of her heart. Yet her breathing was so loud that she could hear it all, every inhale and exhale.

When she moved again, hunching her shoulders inward, Willow heard her silent request, letting her go.

“Where is she?” Buffy eventually managed to whisper, eyes still closed. “Where’s…”

 _…the body,_ she couldn’t bring herself to say.

Not yet, not again.

She didn’t need to be told Dawn was gone; Willow understood that, too. The world was still here. That was proof enough.

When Willow did not answer, Buffy wasn’t surprised. When she heard what appeared to be sniffling, however, she opened her eyes at last. Not that it was wrong for her friend to be crying. After all, she’d loved the girl, too.

There was an odd quality to her grief, though. Even detached as she felt, Buffy knew something _was_ wrong.

“Will?” She insisted.

Willow shook her head, unable to meet her eyes, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “We didn’t…” she tried, unsuccessfully trying to wipe her runny nose, letting out a loud, wheezy breath. “There was nothing, Buffy. We looked everywhere, I even did…a locating spell. There’s nothing. She’s just…gone.”

Another moment stretched, not a silent one, as Willow was crying in earnest now, fighting to get a hold of herself, and failing miserably. Stuck in a familiar limbo where all was numb, Buffy could only stare at her best friend.

“No body?” She asked, at last.

Willow bit down on her lip, hard enough for the skin to pale, hard enough to hurt, surely. She shook her head repeatedly before taking what appeared to be a steadying breath, finally meeting Buffy’s eyes.

“There’s no more Dawn at all, Buffy.”

…

Buffy stared at her mother’s sewing equipment, experiencing the most uncomfortable feeling of dejà-vu of her life. She’d been having prophetic dreams since she was fifteen; she was used to living through moments she’d envisioned before. This was different, though.

More real, somehow, despite her lack of focus.

She wasn’t under the influence of any spell this time, yet the alternate version of the room kept on flashing across her eyes; one moment, she saw the room as it was now, full of unused machines, of discarded boxes overflowing with hoarded materials, the air stale from the door and windows having been kept shut for weeks, if not months. But then she’d blink, and everything would shift, replaced by an unkept bed and a slightly tidier wardrobe; bookshelves full of books, including a couple of singed journals; papers, textbooks and half-finished homework scattered all over the desk.

It was as if traces of her sister were trying to bleed through.

 _No more Dawn at all_.

The sound of wood splintering briefly took her out of her trance, drawing her gaze to the doorjamb she’d been grabbing at. She stared at the crack that had formed on the frame on either side of her hand, not really seeing it at all.

“Where are the others?” She asked to the darkness within the crack.

“They’re…” Willow began feebly, somewhere outside the crack. “Tara’s in your mom’s room, she’s, well, she’s _back_ , but tired, drained, really because I...” She let her voice trail. “Xander took Anya to the ER. She has a concussion, from the looks of it. Giles…he helped bring you here, but he went back for Spike. It got…kinda sunny, and he was…sorta bruised.”

At the mention of her Watcher’s name, the crack expanded, both on the jamb and deep within.

“He did it,” she said in a flat voice.

“Who, Spike?” Willow said, confused. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t, we saw him fall from the tower before the ritual started, he was –”

“Not Spike,” Buffy interrupted her with an odd edge to her voice – of course it could never have been Spike, not after Glory. “Giles killed Dawn.”

“He…” Willow tried, at a loss, her breathing becoming wheezy again. “N…no, Buffy. He would never…” She stopped, maybe remembering Giles’s words only hours ago, in the Magic Box.

_Buffy, the only way is to kill Dawn._

“He said…he said he untied her and she…jumped…”

Deeper and deeper the crack went. Darker and darker.

“He killed her,” Buffy repeated, and then she said no more.

It didn’t matter, that Willow believe her or not, just as it didn’t matter, what had happened up there; how it happened.

Buffy _knew_ her body. That was part of the curse, from being a Slayer, to be aware of her own body, of its strengths and its weaknesses at any given time, no matter the state of her mind. She’d recognized the effects the moment she woke up.

She’d been drugged, one efficient way to prevent her from climbing the tower. And only one person in their midst could have had both the ingenuity and the ruthlessness to come up with such a plan.

She’d been drugged by her Watcher.

Again.

He’d stopped her from going up there, from protecting her. Stopped her from saving the last piece of herself that still held a hint of innocence, a chance at a normal life. The last piece of herself she’d been able to love.

It should have been her gift, that much she understood, now. She should have died for Dawn.

There should have been peace, and warmth; completion.

Now all she had left was emptiness.

…

The sodding Watcher wouldn’t budge.

In Spike’s opinion, he’d already overstayed his welcome about thirty seconds after helping him inside the dimness of his crypt. How he’d not burst into flames a couple dozen times between the site and the cemetery was a bloody miracle in itself, considering _who_ ’d taken it upon themselves to drag his broken arse back here. Nothing but shock and grief could have made the male Scoobies actually discuss how to get Spike safely away from a sunbathed construction site and not be having a laugh about it.

Not that it mattered, any of it; not his many broken bones, or the throbbing stab wound in his back.

The Little Bit was dead.

 _Erased from this reality_ , even, to quote the sad old bloke who’d yet to leave his crypt.

Spike wanted to be left alone. He couldn’t do anything about the guilt and overwhelming sense of failure already brewing in the depth of his being, but he sure as hell knew a good twelve hours spent in total darkness with a pint or two of blood would go a long way in healing his damaged body.

“What’s it that you want, Rupert,” he finally gave up pretending he didn’t feel the human presence only meters away from him.

“Anything numbing will do.”

Spike rose his head from the tombstone, surprised by his honesty. “Left side of the fridge,” he offered, dropping his head back down with a groan. He followed the Watcher’s movements, his footsteps even heavier than usual, heard him rummage through his pile of rubbish and empty bottles until he found the right one.

The next sounds indicated he was having quite the swallow.

“Hey, don’t down the bloody thing,” he protested.

Only silence followed. Silence, and more swallowing. Spike sighed – for dramatic effect.

“You’re not needed here,” he spoke with another grunt. “Slayer’s got to be coming around soon.”

He didn’t say more, but what he meant was clear enough. The Watcher should be at Buffy’s side when she woke up.

_So that one of us can give her some comfort._

“I won’t be going back,” Rupert said, an odd, heavy resignation in his voice. “If I do, she’ll probably kill me. Not that I can blame her.”

Spike rose his head again. “For letting the Nibblet jump?”

Another long swallow. _Damn_ , he was gonna down the whole thing.

“And for preventing her from getting to Dawn,” he corrected, sounding almost detached. “The portal had opened. Worlds were colliding. If Buffy had made it up there…she would have jumped instead.”

It only took Spike a moment to understand what he meant; despite the shock that travelled through his broken body at the revelation, some part of him had expected it. The whole story’d been sketchy from the moment the old chap had reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. How he’d untied Dawn and she’d ‘jumped’. Spike had assumed the girl hadn’t given him much of a say in it – with her being a bloody Summers and all; self-sacrificing bravery and general pigheadedness ran in the family.

He’d also assumed Buffy’d been knocked down by the Hell-bitch, because nothing in this dimension or the thousands that had briefly bled through this one could have prevented her from getting to her little sis, except a concussing blow.

Or…

“You…” Spiked growled as he tried to sit up, indignation, disgust and loathing coursing through his blood. But his broken bones wouldn’t allow it, causing him to slump back heavily against cold stone. “You sodding…”

“Would you rather this had ended with Buffy’s corpse at the bottom of that tower?”

Rupert’s words were cold, calculated, and once again too detached for someone who’d successfully betrayed both his surrogate daughters in the worst possible way. It filled Spike with a desire for _human_ blood he’d not felt in quite some time. Not the desire to feed he still quelled on a regular basis.

This was a visceral need to hurt and to _kill_ , to grab at his neck and apply pressure until he heard bones snap.

The feeling was too raw to know if it was meant on Buffy’s behalf, or on the Bit’s. Another thing that didn’t matter.

And yet…

And yet, there was a horrible truth to the Watcher’s words.

There’d been a moment, only seconds, at that, when Spike had seen Buffy’s body on the ground and thought her dead…before Harris checked her vitals and exclaimed that she was alive. Spike had wanted to push the wet noodle aside and check for himself, get close enough to her that he could hear and feel the rushing of her blood through her veins, the thumping of her heart.

Truth was, he’d rarely felt this relieved in his entire existence, all hundreds plus years of it.

“It wasn’t your bloody choice to make,” Spike said anyway. “All she’s done for you and your sodding gang, and you go stab her in the back.”

“I’m quite certain I don’t need to be lectured by a cold blooded killer.”

Spike huffed. “Bollocks. You’re no better than me, Ripper. ‘Cause if we’re looking at numbers alone, you’ve killed more people than me in recent history. Maybe they chipped the wrong Brit.”

There was a _whoosh_ , and the sensation of something flying past his head, before glass shattered on the ground.

Spike knew the Watcher was skilled enough to hit a target at such a close range. He’d barely tried at all.

“I did what had to be done,” Rupert said, in that same hollow voice, as if he hadn’t just had a little fit.

Spike tasted iron, having bitten the inside of his cheek so hard it bled. “You killed the only family she’d left.” In comparison to the Watcher’s tone, his voice was low and sorrowful.

“Dawn wasn’t her sister,” he said, speaking words that were even emptier than they’d been back in the Magic Box the previous night, although there was a hint of something else now. Supplication, maybe.

_She’s me. The monks made her out of me. She’s the only part that I…_

“Doesn’t make a bloody difference,” Spike spoke quietly, yet not quietly enough to conceal the growing thickness of his voice, every inch of him that had nothing to do with his bones or flesh _hurting_ at the thought of Buffy in the aftermath of this mess. “No more mother, no more father, and no more sister…You’ve stripped her bare, Rupert. Keep on telling yourself you saved her all you want, if it helps you go on with your life. Truth is, you and I both know you’ve just killed her. You’ve killed your Slayer.”

The old sod didn’t say anything.

There was nothing left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have a few chapters written, so updates should be ~weekly. Comments are always appreciated! ;-)


	2. Chapter Two

His instincts warned him of a nearby demon mere seconds before the sound of fighting reached his ears. Spike didn’t let himself hope that it might be her; this was not a skilled fight.

For one thing, there were too many yelps.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the scene. A huge, ugly looking demon had pinned Harris to the ground, now attempting to tear his head off, while all three female companions made various amounts of noise about it.

Spike launched himself at the pair of them, grabbing the demon and, bloody _hell_ this thing was slimy, using his momentum and growing disgust to unlatch it from the boy. He ended up rolling with it onto the ground, feeling its slime and smell imbue his clothes within seconds. This properly pissed him off; he made to snap the thing’s neck by-

_‘Spike no!’_

The Witch’s voice resonated in his head, the sensation nowhere as painful as, let’s say, a chip being triggered in his brain, but it still felt extremely uncomfortable, not to mention intrusive. That was enough to make him hesitate. The foul smelling demon took advantage of it, breaking free of his hold, crushing in a few of his recently healed ribs in the process.

“Just hold it!” Willow shouted, using her voice this time.

“I was holding it, you silly bint!” Spike roared as he rolled sideways to avoid another blow, before using most of his lower body to swipe at the creature’s legs.

It fell to the ground once more, soon pinned to the earth. Spike knew it wouldn’t last long, even when Harris joined him and used his weak body to add some pressure.

“Now would be a good time, Will!” Harris grunted.

_“Release!”_

The spell sent both men flying, hitting the ground a few meters away. There was a flash of bright light, followed by an odd ripple, as if someone had thrown a stone into the pond that made up the fabric of this reality.

And sure enough, where there had been a demon a moment ago, there was nothing left but some residue goo on the grass…as well as all over Spike’s front.

“Oh, god, please tell me we’re almost done with this bunch,” Harris was saying, sounding seconds away from spewing all over his girlfriend’s shoes, as she helped him stand back up.

“They are rather putrid,” she agreed. “That one the other night was bad enough. It was all over Xander’s hair, and it wouldn’t come off with regular shampoo. I only agreed to have sex with him in the tub, with plenty of bubble bath.”

“That’s…neat,” Willow said, making a face Spike had come to associate with Harris’s sex life. “There should only be two left, though, and the others species still roaming the town are supposed to be harmless, so we don’t have to rush as much for those.”

“I vote for hazmat suits,” Harris rose his hand, before flicking it several times, trying to get rid of its runny layer, his girlfriend making more disapproving noises at being spattered with demon jelly.

Spike wasn’t doing any better, trying to wipe his fingers off on a tombstone. He’d stopped breathing a while ago, but when he made to speak, the smell filled up his lungs again, and his cracked ribs seared. “Glad to know nothing will ever stop the two of you copulating, but why the bloody hell did you feel the need to shout in my noggin, Red?”

Willow made a face, halfway between a grimace and an apologetic smile. “Quicker and more efficient?” When he tilted his head, unconvinced, she added: “I had to act fast, and telepathy is more suggestive. I didn’t want you to kill it.”

“More _suggestive_ , eh?” He said, approaching the couple of witches, and they both wrinkled their noses at his stench. “I’m very fond of my free will, Red. I’d recommend you leave it alone.”

“Yeah, ‘cause otherwise, he’s gonna annoy you to death,” Harris felt the need to butt in.

Spike turned his head to glare at him. “Next time, I’ll let it rip off your head, boy,” he said calmly. “And I might just have myself a snack on your brain stem.” The idiot had the good sense to keep his trap shut. Spike looked back at the redhead. “What d’you do to it, then?

“I sent it back.”

“Back?”

“To its own d-dimension?” Tara offered.

“Still not making any sense, Pet.”

“Sky going kaboomy?” Harris chimed in again. “Dimensions getting all…entangly, with demons pouring out? Rings any bells?”

Spike frowned at him, his patience wearing thinner by the second. The condescending note in Harris’s voice made him _deeply_ regret not letting him lose his head. “Oh you mean, the stuff that happened after I was thrown off a eighty feet tall tower while trying to save the Niblet? Yeah, didn’t catch most of that.”

The mood changed instantly.

Spiked sighed, keeping from rolling his eyes again at the way the four humans were now avoiding each other’s gazes. What rubbed him the wrong way was that what he sensed from them wasn’t grief. Or not the kind of grief he’d expected to sense, so soon after it all happened.

There was…unease.

“So that nasty bugger came from another dimension?” He asked Tara, as she tended to be the least annoying of them all.

“Y…Yes,” she nodded. “Most of them were sent back into their own world when…when the p-p-portal closed, but s-some of them…”

“They’d already wandered off too far from their gate,” Willow finished, apparently unwilling to give her girl a few extra seconds to do it herself. “We didn’t want to kill them. I mean, we figured, if we’d been the ones accidently sent to another dimension, we wouldn’t want to be killed just for, you know, being there. So, yeah. Just, trying to do the right thing.”

He stared at her, taking in her piss poor excuse. _Trying to do the right thing._

“Alright then,” Spike said, whatever curiosity he’d had about the whole topic having been efficiently squashed by their so-call righteousness – when he’d just call it an attempt at feeling less guilty about something else. “Why are you four helpless idiots in charge of this little rescue mission, though? Where’s the Slayer?” He almost congratulated himself for managing to sound disinterested.

Their shifty attitude resumed, although they did exchange some glances this time.

“She’s…” Willow started, but her voice trailed off.

“On leave,” Harris finished.

“On leave,” Spike repeated.

“Like, unpaid holidays,” Anya offered. “That is, if her calling involved her getting paid for her services in the first place. Which it doesn’t. So, technically, she’s just staying at home all day, refusing to talk to any of us.”

“Anya,” her boytoy protested.

“Well it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Anya carried on, annoyed. “Even when she does let us in, she just sits there and doesn’t say anything. I still think she’s gone catatonic again.”

“She hasn’t,” Willow said. “I told you I’ve checked. She’s just…”

“She’s grieving,” Tara spoke softly, meeting Spike’s gaze, and the sadness in her eyes let him know that _grieving_ was an understatement for the state the Slayer was in.

It broke his bloody heart.

He wasn’t exactly surprised by what they were saying. As soon as he’d been strong enough to leave his crypt, he’d resumed what had been his favourite nighttime activity a few months back: staring at her bedroom’s window while he littered the ground with cigarette butts, letting his imagination go wild.

Here’s how it usually went:

Buffy found him lurking in the shadow of that big tree. She didn’t say much of anything, as he tried apologising for his shortcomings. She was never impressed, and always dusted him.

 _That_ had been the basis for scenarios 1 to about 259, those first few nights Spike spent outside her house. The settings may vary, usually details in their conversation, but the end result remained the same.

A pile of dust.

He’d not seen her leave the house once. He’d caught glimpses of her, when she opened the door for her mates, but most of the time, they’d let themselves in. Every evening, they showed up, one couple or the other, as if afraid to face her on their own. They never stayed long, looking more miserable on their way out than they did on their way in.

He’d figured she was bound to start patrolling again, soon, though; it’d taken her a while after her mum’s death, but she’d gotten back into it.

Scenarios 260 to…whatever hundreds he was up to now, usually happened in a cemetery. He would ‘stumble’ upon her during a chase, or right after. In his most optimistic setups, she’d walk by his crypt. The rest remained unchanged, for the most part. He tried apologising for letting her down; for failing the Little Bit.

She always drove a stake through his heart.

Now one might ask why he didn’t just barge into her house and talked to her, told her what happened, how he’d tried, how he’d gotten up there and _almost_ freed the Bit. But he couldn’t.

‘cause he’d gotten up there alright.

He’d also been thrown off the sodding tower and broken half his bones in the process, too in pain in the aftermath of his fall to realise what her Watcher’d been up to and put a stop to it.

Truth of the matter was, he may be boisterous, obnoxious and hotheaded in most situations, to the point where he’d once chained her up to confess his feelings to her, that part of him had become quite meek of late. Something in him ached for the Slayer and her loss, turning him into a bloody _coward_.

Since he relied on She-Who-Usually-Hung-Out-In-Cemeteries-A-Lot to go back to doing just that, Spike now spent most of his nights patrolling himself. His reputation in the demon community was already abysmal anyway, permanently stuck in that grey area where he wasn’t part of either world.

Not human, but not entirely monster either.

And so he killed. He couldn’t confront her and unburden himself in the hope that it would appease the itchy guilt currently festering under his skin, but he could at least make sure someone held the fort while she got back on her feet.

“And the Watcher?” Spike eventually asked the sorry gang in front of him.

This caused the heaviest silence yet.

“Back to England,” was all Harris said, in a voice so tense Spike didn’t need to wonder if they knew what the old man had done.

“I’m in charge of the Magic Box, now,” Anya added with a satisfied grin.

“Thank Liz we're saved,” Spike did roll his eyes at that, before turning to face the witches again. “Call on me if you need some real muscles.”

He started striding off.

“Why would you even help us?” Harris called out to his retreating form.

Spike didn’t bother with a reply.

…

The colors were too bright.

She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she didn’t see them, these waves of energy surrounding every living things – or even inanimate objects, if she focused hard enough. Her mother had taught her early on how to read these colors, how to interpret their meanings; how to use them to gauge the mood of a situation, to tell an honest person from a liar.

Tara had only spent a couple of days trapped in darkness, but her return to sanity had been harsh, and bright.

There was relief at being in control of her own mind and body again, but what she’d regained in physicality, she seemed to lack in spirituality. Her ability to sense others and their emotions had not gone, on the contrary. She appeared to have come back _more_ sensitive, not quite able to control this extra dose of awareness yet.

“Well, maybe you kinda…sorta…got a bit of Glory-ness in you?”

Willow’s words when Tara mentioned it to her did nothing to soothe her. She understood what she meant; Will had showed her how she’d mapped both hers and Glory’s essences to take back what had been stolen – a feat that made her feel immense pride in her, having planted the seed for this particular skill.

And yet, like everything else when it came to Willow and magic these days, she’d started to abuse her magicks for personal gain. She’d used Tara’s spiritual teaching about energy and auras, contorting it to her liking; starting to draw from darkness to make herself more powerful.

What Glory had drained from Tara was indescribable, yet Willow had succeeded in draining it right back. The idea that she might indeed have taken a bit of _Glory_ along with it was repulsing, yet it made all kind of sense.

In the hours that followed her reawakening, when she’d had to cope with being _her_ again while trying to help the rest of the Scoobies deal with Dawn’s sudden disappearance and Buffy’s near catatonia, Tara had longed for her mom, in a way she hadn’t in months. Her mom would have been able to make sense of these distorted feelings she was experiencing; at the very least, she’d be able to help her find her center again, help her create the right balance, embrace all these emotions and messages she was receiving from all ends.

Now that things had settled down a little, she also found herself wishing Giles hadn’t left so abruptly – although his motives were understandable, if not excusable in any way. Without the former Watcher here to guide them, they were just five young adults in the midst of several emotional traumas, trying to figure out how to deal with the fallout.

It wasn’t all bad, though.

When it was just her and Willow in the dim moonlight, the over-stimulation caused by her raw chakras dimmed, too. She was allowed to rely solely on her regular senses, then, to breathe in Willow-smells, and caress Willow-skin, almost able to reach that inner peace she used to find so often and so easily in her arms.

Almost.

“Maybe I should call Angel.”

Tara looked up from the cards she’d spread on the floor. Willow’s current position was…odd, for lack of better word. She’d put the Buffy Bot on the bed to reattach its head, after complaining that the floor was hurting her knees...which had led to Willow more or less lying atop its chest as she worked on the minute wires in the machine’s neck.

When it came to calling Angel…Tara understood Willow’s reasoning, to some extent. She had called him after Joyce’s death.

“I don’t think it would help, this time,” Tara said, unable _not_ to feel increasingly uncomfortable watching her girlfriend straddling a mutual friend of theirs – even in robot form.

“Probably not,” Willow agreed. “Best that could happen would be Angel trying to smooch happiness back into her. And by ‘best’ I mean ‘worst’, since, you know, the ‘smooching happiness’ would probably lead to the ‘now I’m gonna go murder what’s left of your friends’ shenanigan.”

“Uhm…” Tara said, a non-committal sound that finally drew Willow’s focus from the Bot.

She frowned upon seeing her expression, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

Tara shook her head a little with a small, loop-sided smile. “It’s nothing, it’s just… _this_ looks really weird.”

Willow did a double take at the robot she was still straddling, looking back at Tara in offence. “Hey, no, ew, _pillows_!” She exclaimed, pointing at the pillows she had indeed put upon the Buffy Bot to avoid any unnecessary contact. “Plus, you know, the fact that right now, it’s mostly just big chunks of metals with half a head attached to it!”

“I know,” Tara said with a kind smile and a tilt of her head. “But those chunks of metals still look a lot like the real thing. Spike definitely found the right creep for the job.”

There was a pause during which they remembered the initial purpose of the Buffy Bot. Next moment, Willow had clambered off both the robot and the bed with another repulsed sound, shaking herself off as if ridding herself of extra wiggins. Tara couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at the scene.

Her smile didn’t last long; too soon, an undefined sense of foreboding was taking over again, along with the brightness of Willow’s aura. It had always been strong, but ever since Glory…there were dark patches where all there used to be was light.

Tara looked back down at the cards, refocusing her energy onto the reading.

“D’you think she’s really gonna move?” Willow asked quietly, settling down next to her on the floor, resting her cheekbone upon her shoulder.

Tara nodded. She didn’t need to read cards to know that. They’d let themselves into Buffy’s house earlier today, having brought lunch with them – although the fridge was now too full to accommodate any more dishes their friend refused to even look at. They’d found her in the kitchen alright…filling up boxes.

“Are you asking about Dawnie?” Willow asked, almost in a whisper, a question Tara answered with another small nod.

Buffy’s aura was the oddest of all, these days. It still held that vibrancy Tara associated with the Protectors of this world, but…it was the lingering green at the edges that troubled her. And it wasn’t the green she’d spotted on those rare, good days Buffy had experienced.

This was the green Tara had come to associate with _Dawn_ , especially when everything had been so dark and she had seen how vibrant her core energy was.

It made little to no sense, though, considering every trace of the girl had disappeared from their physical plane when she’d closed the portal.

Hence her current reading.

When Tara revealed the last card, Willow tensed against her. “Ugh, isn’t tarot supposed to be subtle about things?” she asked with a hint of reproach.

But Tara shook her head, staring at the bony face of the skeleton, at the word ‘DEATH’ written at the bottom of the card. Unlike Willow, she understood its meaning within the overall reading.

It still didn’t make any sense at all.

…

When Spike’s door burst opened in an all too familiar way, snapping him out of the doze he’d been having in front of the telly, he almost fell out of his comfy chair.

Buffy stood in his doorway, her face set, gloriously vibrant and…grinning.

Grinning?

“Spike!” She exclaimed, and that was all the bloody confirmation he needed.

“What the –” Considering the Bot was as subtle as a Fyarl demon in a china shop, he easily dodged her first attempt at jumping him – literally.

“It’s been forty-three days and eight hours since we last made love, Spike, I am very, very needy!”

“Get the hell away from me if you don’t want to lose your head again!” He shouted at the bloody contraption before ducking yet another attempt.

Somehow her reflexes seemed even better than they were when Warren first delivered the robot to him, and she got close – too close, her tongue suddenly tracing his neck. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her off. He was just about to throw her into the wall when hurried footsteps came to a stop at the entrance of his crypt.

“Oh, thank the goddess,” Willow wheezed. “Tara, she’s here!”

“Rosenberg,” Spike growled, still keeping the Bot at arm’s length. “What the bloody hell are you playing at?”

The witch had joined them, and with a flick of her fingers, caused the Bot to go stiff, eyes still wide open, grin frozen on her face. Spike let it go, not feeling an ounce of remorse when it hit the dusty floor, disgusted with himself more than he was with the thing itself. He’d _ordered_ the Bot made in the first place, after all, even if it now filled him with disgust to know he’d ever touched it.

Tara had joined the party, already helping Willow carry the Bot to Spike’s armchair, the two of them discussing programming and data errors.

When Spike loudly cleared his throat, they looked up at him. “Sorry,” Willow said, with a matching smile. “I was working on her core programs. I meant to delete the whole, uhm, ‘Fun time with Spike’ software, but I accidently activated it instead.”

“Yeah, figured that much m’self, thanks,” he growled, going straight for the open door, careful to avoid the streaming sunlight, shutting it close with a bit too much force. “Why would you even turn the sodding thing back on? I thought that it losing its head to Glory was a good way to leave it.”

The witches exchanged another one of those ‘looks’.

“Xander stopped by Willie’s last night,” Willow said. “Apparently, the demon community is starting to notice Buffy hasn’t been out and about these past few days. They don’t…no one… _knows_ what really happened, especially with…well. They don’t know the full story, but they obviously realize something happened at that tower. There’s a rumor going around that Buffy…”

“That she died that night,” Spike finished for her.

His statement was met with silence.

“The Bot isn’t a long term solution, but it’s p-p-practical,” Tara offered quietly. “At least until Buffy…”

Another set of heavy looks. “What?” He demanded more than he asked.

“Buffy, she’s…”Willow started, a bit breathless. “Well, we stopped by for lunch a couple days ago and she’s…packing.”

“Packing,” he repeated.

“Her house,” Tara clarified. “She didn’t say…” another unfinished sentence, and Spike could just see it, the two witches watching the Slayer putting items into boxes, asking her what she was doing, what her plans were, where she was going to go, only to be met with muteness. “She’s obviously planning on moving out.”

“Leaving town?” Spike asked.

Willow shrugged a shoulder with an uneasy pout, and Tara shook her head a little: “I don’t think so? I’ve done a reading and…she’s going to move, but I can still sense her being here in the upcoming months.”

Spike had spent enough decades with Dru not to ignore anyone with any kind of sight. “Anything else your cards told you?”

There they went again with the meaningful glances. He clenched his jaws, waiting as patiently as he possibly could. “ _Well_?”

“There is…something,” Willow said, hesitantly. “It’s all a bit blurry, but definitely not _not_ there, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t have a bleeding clue what you’re saying half the time, Red. Why not try making a proper sentence every once in a while.”

“It’s Dawn,” Tara said, and an heavy kind of silence briefly settled between them at the name. “I asked about Dawn, because something’s off. She’s disappeared from this reality when she…” Pause. “There’s no more physical traces of her ever being in their home, no record of her at school or anywhere else, and there was no b-b-b-b-”

“No body,” Spike offered, not unkindly. “I know, Pet. I was there when we figured that one out.”

“She’s gone, yet she’s not,” Tara continued. “All of us closest to her, who had our memories altered the most…we still remember her, to a certain degree.”

“What d’you mean?”

“The memories are…fading, for some of us,” Willow said, uneasily.

“You’re forgetting her,” Spike rephrased, not even trying to hide his indignation.

“It’s not like we have a say in the matter,” Willow defended herself. “I still remember her, and I still feel like my best friend’s little sister just died, but the memories…” she shook her head. “It’s getting…fuzzier. Anything beyond nine months or so ago, it’s all…foggy.”

Spike stared at the witch, not really seeing her anymore. He thought back to his oldest memories of Dawn. He’d been sitting in Buffy’s living room, during that first truce that had changed everything, making small talk with Joyce.

He’d spotted the kid before her mother did, crouched in the stairs, peering at him through the railing. He’d stared back, narrowing his eyes, trying to scare off the brat without a single word.

 _“I like your coat,”_ she’d said instead. _“It’s cool.”_

So much for scaring her off. He’d dropped the scowl. “ _Thanks, Niblet_ ,” he’d said, before Joyce had ordered her back upstairs.

There was nothing ‘foggy’ at all about that memory.

“You reckon she’ll fade away, then?” Spike asked, lighting a cigarette, trying to bury the ache thinking about the kid had brought out. If she did fade away, eventually disappeared from everybody’s memories…maybe it’d be for the best.

“In time, maybe,” Tara answered. “But, like I said, something’s…off. When I asked about Dawn, the cards…” She shook her head.

“That bad, uh?”

“That’s the thing,” Tara shook her head again. “I didn’t see death, or fading. I saw rebirth.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And a huge thank you to Lilly for her beta work.


	3. Chapter Three

Spike entered the house from the back.

Somehow, it felt less intrusive than using the main entrance. Easier, too, since he couldn’t help remembering the last time he’d come through that front door. How he’d stood there and promised he’d protect Dawn until the end of the world. The house had been bathed in light, then.

Everything was dark, now.

He didn’t mind it; preferred it that way, really, sharpened senses and all. He knew the moment he stepped into the house that he would find her with ease. Only months ago, this place had been a combination of smells, human and else. Food, flowers, soap, detergent…

Above all else, Joyce and Dawn had permeated the air as much as Buffy had. He would always be able to track her, even amongst a thousand humans and their musk, her scent imprinted deeper in his flesh than that bloody chip was in his brain.

It was everywhere in this house, now; dominant.

Lone.

Traces of the Scoobies lingered, as well as distant hints of Joyce…nearly gone, but there. Mainly, there was just Buffy.

No more Dawn at all.

He followed the trail, quietly making his way to the stairs, noting the few boxes already halfway filled with junk. He went up without as much as a creak, his steps leading him to what he knew had been Joyce’s room, the door slightly ajar.

It’d been decades since his heart last beat in his chest, yet something in him still expected his body to respond the way it used to in some situations, feeling an odd void when the sensations never came. Right now, had his heart been beating, it would have been speeding up as he approached the door, not entirely sure _why_ he’d finally found the courage to come here, early enough to hopefully find her awake.

Maybe it was hearing the Wiccan say she was getting herself ready to move. Or it was seeing the sodding Bot again, making him realize how much he craved for the real thing.

He mostly blamed that hollow feeling in his gut he’d been so good at ignoring ever since the tower; that particular feeling had flared up earlier today when discussing Dawn, and refused to be put out. Among other things, it made him realise that whatever amount of pain he was dealing with, it was nothing compared to what Buffy must be feeling right now.

He couldn’t help her, yet the idea of staying away from her one more minute was excruciating.

Realistically, he knew his many scenarios had been _slightly_ overdramatic and unrealistic; he still approached Joyce’s room with caution, aware that she would have sensed him approaching by now, her instincts long attuned to him, not to mention just as sharp as his. He carefully pushed the door open, ready to leap to the side, were she to decide a pointy stake was all he deserved to get.

He needn’t have worried.

Her mum’s room was more lit than any other in the house; the curtains hadn’t been drawn, allowing moonlight to stream through the windows, making the scene as clear to him as it would have been in daylight.

Buffy was lying on the bed, facing his way, fully clothed, half-curled into herself. She wasn’t asleep, eyes open. Vacant. She didn’t flinch at his appearance. Didn’t glance up, didn’t move, barely even blinked.

The silence stretched, became thicker, as if it was taking corporeal form. He didn’t expect her to say anything, not after hearing her mates talk about her state of mind.

He was still convinced he could get a small ‘ _Get the hell out of my house_ ’ out of her if he gave it his best.

For now, he just stood in the doorway, watching her, the air so still that the sound of her breathing became prominent in his head. Soon, he was sensing the beating of her heart, too, its slow, steady rhythm, her body as fit and athletic as it’d been a week ago. Just another reminder that most of the time, the flesh and bones didn’t care much about the emotional pain.

If it did, her broken heart wouldn’t be beating so strongly.

After what must have been at least five minutes of unperturbed silence, Spike pushed himself off the doorjamb, and walked back downstairs.

…

She didn’t want to get up.

She didn’t want to sleep either, but she didn’t have to think much about anything when she lay there. She could just breathe in, and breathe out, let the minutes pass, more or less slowly depending on the hour of the day.

She _really_ didn’t want to get up, but Spike had made it back downstairs, and contrary to what she’d thought, he didn’t seem to be leaving. He was making a lot of noises in the kitchen; the sounds were obnoxious, really, compared to how quiet everything had been today. And the day before that.

And the day before that.

There was a particularly loud _bang_ , as if he’d just dropped a pan onto the floor.

Buffy sighed, and pushed herself up.

It took her another couple minutes to actually find the energy to stand up and walk to the door. Part of her brain tried sounding some alarms, her body past giving out casual signs of hunger. Her stomach had been in a tight knot for days, her every limb shivering more or less forcefully, and she was in a constant state of light-headedness.

When she made it down the stairs and into the kitchen, she was met with the nauseating smell of warm milk and cocoa, not to mention how the light attacked her eyes, her background headache suddenly not so background-ish anymore.

Now the one lurking, she watched as Spike carried on with whatever he was doing, way too at ease in her kitchen. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered just how frequently he’d visited her mother these past couple years.

“I’ve got to say, never was a marshmallow bloke m’self until I tried your mum’s cocoa”, he said as if he’d read her mind, adding a good amount of tiny marshmallows into the two mugs he’d filled with hot chocolate. “Now I’m not sayin’ it’s on the same level as those onion blossom things, but it definitely grows on you.”

After dropping the dirty saucepan into the sink, he sat down at the counter, popping one of the little marshmallows into his mouth, finally looking up at her.

As it often was the case where Spike was concerned, she felt a familiar wave of annoyance rise inside of her; it felt a bit off, probably because she hadn’t really felt anything at all in days. She couldn’t decide between pushing the unwanted feeling aside, or latching onto it fully.

This inner conflict only annoyed her more.

“What are you doing?” She asked, unable to keep herself from sounding peeved.

“Having a cuppa,” he said simply. “I was feeling peckish.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “You feed on _blood_.”

He huffed. “Well, _duh_. Doesn’t mean I don’t get a craving for something sweet every once in a while.”

He raised a suggestive eyebrow at that, and she felt the muscles of her face tense for the first time in days as she scowled, staring at him in mild disgust.

“Get out of my house, Spike,” she said.

The words were familiar, well-rehearsed, but her voice had already lost its edge. There was no real irritation, no exasperation, no determination.

He seemed to notice it, too; while he’d smirked a little at her words, the smile had already been replaced by something else. It wasn’t pity or concern, her friends’ favorite emotions around her these days, but it definitely wasn’t _nothing_.

She hated it.

“I’ll go,” he said, his voice lower, having dropped the teasing, too. “Once you’ve given that cocoa a chance.”

She stared at the untouched mug, wondering if she even had enough energy left in her to drag her body from the doorway to the stool.

“Food’s not been agreeing with me,” she found herself saying instead, quietly.

_Why_ she would tell him that was beyond her. And yet, it wasn’t exactly the first time he got her to speak when she didn’t want to speak at all.

“Yeah, well, that’s not really food, pet. Mostly just sugar in various forms, I reckon.”

Buffy sighed, trying to decide whether arguing with him was worth using up whatever strength she had left. Unfortunately, she was definitely too weak to _kick_ his ass out.

In the end, she decided it wasn’t worth the effort, pushing herself off the doorjamb, coming to sit down on the other side of the island. She automatically brought her hands around the steaming mug, flinching a little at the searing heat.

She stared at the floating pieces of coagulated sugar, silence stretching once more, only broken by the sounds he was making as he slowly drank from his own mug.

“Dawn loved those stupid marshmallows,” she eventually said, for no reasons at all, except that the strong smell and familiarity of the scene had brought forth a flurry of memories she didn’t really want to ignore.

It was so easy, to picture Mom and Dawn in this kitchen with her, her sister rambling on and on and _on_ , while their Mom busied herself at the stove, reminding her youngest to breathe every once in a while.

“I always found they made the whole thing too…sugary,” Buffy continued, poking at the little islands, causing them to sink, then come back up. Sink, then come back up. “Dawn would go nuts when the sugar rush kicked in, as if she wasn’t already a walking disaster waiting to happen. Yet Mom always – ”

She stopped abruptly, both her hands dropping from the mug, suddenly aware of the stinging sensation in her eyes, of how tight and painful her throat had become. She’d made it this far without crying even once, she certainly was not about to start now.

“Get out,” she whispered.

“Buffy,” he tried, but she pushed herself off her seat.

Maybe it was hearing him say her name, something he rarely did, all things considered. Or it might have been the pained note in his voice, making her aware of how vulnerable she’d let herself become, in front of _him_.

Mostly, it was sheer exhaustion.

“I just want to be left alone,” she said. “Why is it so hard for everybody to understand.”

“That’s what humans do, Luv,” he answered, back to business as usual. “Smother each other with food and empty words, hoping it’ll make it all better.”

“Last time I checked, you didn’t even have a soul, so why do you care?” She snapped back, piqued with genuine annoyance.

He didn’t say anything, simply stared at her, tilting his head slowly with that… _look_ , a silent _you know why_ he did not need to say out loud.

_God_ she couldn’t deal with this right now.

Letting out a frustrated noise, she grabbed her untouched mug and walked to the sink, emptying it all in there, making a real mess of it, too.

“Oi, I was gonna drink that,” he protested.

“Go make it in someone else’s kitchen, then,” she replied, turning the water on and using her simmering frustration on the dirty dishes. “Just stay out of mine.”

“From what I’ve heard, it’s not gonna stay yours for much longer.”

She turned off the tap with so much force she was surprised the whole thing didn’t snap. She let her anger rise and grow, wondering if tonight might be the night she broke free, escaped the numbness.

What the hell did _he_ know about what she was going through, or why she’d decided to move out of this house?

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt herself deflate, as if drained to her very core.

“T’s true, then,” he said behind her.

She was quiet for another long minute, quiet and still, holding on to the edge of the sink to keep herself up.

“I can’t stay here,” she said at last.

She really, really couldn’t. The obvious aside, it made no sense for her to stay in this big, three-bedrooms house when she couldn’t even afford it.

She sensed him taking a step closer, her neck tingling in warning, although it’d been a long while since she’d associated her ‘Spike Tingles’ with real danger. He did not invade her personal space, tonight, which was wise.

She’d have to hit him if he did, and she might just faint from the effort.

“It’s your home, pet,” he said then, quietly, and the gaping hole in her chest throbbed.

She found herself letting out an odd sound, something close to a soundless chuckle. “My home…” she repeated. “It feels more like a graveyard.” She took a steadying breath, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “Any other day, I might even have joked about how this town’s graveyards have become more homey than this place.”

He didn’t lose a beat. “You mean, those graveyards you’re not visiting anymore.”

Buffy sighed, slowly turning around, slumping back against the sink, feeling beyond bone-tired, not even trying to conceal it from him.

“Why are you even here?” She asked, wearily. “You helped me when I asked you to, and I’m grateful for that.” She meant it, too. This whole mess would have gone to hell a lot earlier than it had without his help. “But you’re off the hook, now. Your allegiance isn’t exactly needed anymore.”

She did not say this with the intent to hurt.

To be honest, she’d been too lost in her own head to think much about him at all. She’d not meant to hurt him, yet she knew she had the moment he sucked in a breath, a breath he didn’t even need, before letting it out in a loud, quivery exhale.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shakily.

She made eye contact with him, then, _really_ made eye contact for the first time this evening, and something in her shifted. She was able to briefly escape her miserable headspace to acknowledge the vampire standing in her kitchen.

She didn’t blame him for what happened, never even thought about how he might somehow be responsible for it. Yet from what she saw in those ridiculously clear eyes, he seemed to be blaming himself nonetheless.

“Don’t be a dope,” she told him, eventually, almost…amicably. “You tried. You made it up there. That’s more than I can say for myself.”

Another silence. “I –”

“Don’t,” she interrupted him. This was more than she could cope with. She’d done more talking and thinking in the past ten minutes than she had in the past ten days, and she was beyond exhausted. “Please, Spike. Can you just…go?”

A few more quiet moments passed when she thought he wasn’t going to move, that he would simply stay there, staring at her until she herself found the strength to walk out of the room, admitting defeat. Again.

But Spike did move, in the end.

He gave her a short, conceding nod, before walking past her to open the door, quietly retreating into the night.

She relaxed a little once the door closed behind him, yet it wasn’t long before she felt the familiar weight of loneliness pressing down on her shoulders, the house back to being absolutely quiet.

Empty.

When she’d gathered enough energy to push herself off the sink, all she had in mind was her mother’s bed, upstairs, away from the smells and the light. But her eyes had stopped on the fridge, and did not move away.

With a small, exasperated sigh, Buffy opened the door, and grabbed some food.

…

A few things tended to happen when a Scooby meeting that was supposed to be in session actually started twenty minutes late because a certain ex-demon-slash-secret-fiancé had spotted a couple of customers who were ‘most definitely going to spend a lot of money here.’

First, he got bored. And because he’d long been forbidden by the previous shop owner who shall remained nameless from touching anything in the store, his default response was to sit down at the table, with the box of doughnuts he still dutifully brought to every meeting.

Sure, he could talk to Willow and Tara, equally seated at the table, but the pair of them had come in the shop mid-conversation about something serious, magical and complicated, which they’d carried on having after they joined him at the table and opened a couple of heavy books. Maybe he should have worried about that, considering there was no big threat looming that he knew of.

Yet again, Xander had long ago learned not to pre-emptively panic. The panicking always came in due time.

All of this, obviously, had led to him getting friendly with previously-mentioned box of doughnuts, so that by the time Anya had officially closed the store and sat down at his side, the box wasn’t as full at it once was.

There was something to be said about being able to eat four whole doughnuts in under twenty minutes. And most of it was being said, albeit wordlessly, from Tara’s sympathetic look, to Willow’s unimpressed pout. He didn’t really want to glance at his girlfriend-slash-secret-fiancé.

“Don’t think I can’t feel you all silently judging me,” he said, pointing a sugar-covered finger at the two witches.

“No one is being silent about it, honey,” Anya felt the need to say. “I’ve already voiced my concerns that your chances of dying of a heart attack before the age of fifty have gone up considerably in the past two weeks.”

“I’m stress eating,” Xander defended himself, unable _not_ to glance at the open box. His stomach was full, and he was already sweating a little, yet he swore he could have heard that jelly in the corner calling his name. _Xaaaaander_.

Willow flicked her fingers, and the box vanished.

“Hey, we said no more vanishing spells in the vicinity of the cash register!” Anya protested.

Willow rolled her eyes, apparently unaware of the way Tara was now frowning at her, as she asked Xander: “How did it go with Buffy today?”

He gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulder, topped with a bit of a despondent smile. “Pretty much the same.”

“She was responsive when I talked to her about market value and the state of her bank account, though,” Anya chimed in. “More apathetic than enthusiastic, obviously, but she did make some important decisions.”

“That’s it, then,” Willow asked, pouting again. “The house’s officially on sale?”

“Put up the sign outside myself,” Xander said, giving his best friend a sad, understanding smile.

“It does make financial sense,” Anya carried on, ignoring the heavy sets of looks being exchanged across the table. “Especially since she’s obviously not planning on getting herself a job any time soon. Between her mother’s life insurance and what she’ll collect once the house is sold, she should be able to rent a small place and feed herself for some time.”

“Yay?” Xander fake-cheered, Willow looking equally dejected.

Both Anya and Tara were relatively new to their gang, used to gathering in the Magic Box, but Xander could tell his best friend felt as disheartened as he did at the thought of the Summers house being sold.

While they’d had a few ‘War Rooms’ over the years, Buffy’s home had always been…homey. It’d been the place where they’d all gather after a battle had been won, to regroup and relax, to be coddled by Joyce, to let themselves be kids, every once in a while.

The library, Giles’s apartment, _Giles_ …yet another piece of what had once been a strong unit being chipped away.

Across the table, Willow and Tara were sharing a look – and not the kind he used to daydream about a few months back. It was the kind of look that made him sit up a little.

“You guys are having a thought,” he pointed the obvious.

“More than a thought, actually,” Willow said with an uneasy smile. “More like, a blurry blueprint, or the wobbly backbone of a crazy idea.”

“You’re speaking in weird metaphors again,” Anya frowned. “Please get to your point.”

“Hey, difficult topic here,” Willow protested, somewhat breathless. “I think…no. I _know_ what we can do to help Buffy.”

When no one said anything, she continued: “I’ve been thinking about it a _lot_ since Dawn…ever since the tower. Mystical death, mystical ball of energy and all…I mean, sure, she technically served her purpose: she was a key and she locked a door. But she also was a being with a soul. And I keep thinking…if I was able to summon a soul back into a vampire, what stops me from summoning hers back, too?”

The silence that followed her suggestion was to be expected. Tara looked like she’d heard this before, and was not reluctant to the topic. Xander glanced at Anya, who was now staring at Willow with the kind of frown she usually reserved for customers who mishandled her goods.

“Willow,” he said softly, deciding it would be best for him to speak before Anya did. “That’s…it’s a tempting notion, I’ll give you that. But…Dawn’s not walking around as a soulless vampire, with you just having to stick her soul back in. She’s gone.”

“She’s not, though,” Willow countered, her voice rising. “All of us, we still remember her when she should have faded completely. And Tara senses Dawn _all_ around Buffy.”

All eyes turned on Tara, who withdrew into herself at being put into the spotlight. Before Glory went and decided to suck up her brain ‘just for funsies’, she’d become more and more confident around them, slowly asserting herself within their group as more than just ‘Willow’s girlfriend’.

Xander could tell she was struggling with what had happened to her; she was more withdrawn now, avoiding eye contact, and her stutter had become stronger than it’d been for ages around them.

“It’s…complicated,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Can’t be more complicated than all that trigonometry crap Willow spent hours trying to teach me,” Xander encouraged her with a warm smile, which she feebly returned.

“We all…” she started. “We all have a flow of energy surrounding us. The energy’s d-d-different from p-people to people, though. D-different colors, different intensities. No two auras look the same.”

“Like penises,” Anya suggested.

“Ahn,” Xander sighed, but the other two women had already decided to ignore the ill-timed comment, used to such occurrence by now.

A _slightly_ awkward paused followed, before Tara resumed: “Buffy’s aura…it’s got hints of Dawn’s, now.”

This was met with another silence. “Dawn was made _from_ Buffy, though, wasn’t she?” Xander tried. “Maybe it’s just…”

“No,” Willow shook her head. “The change’s recent. As in ‘since Dawn jumped’ kind of recent. Which is why I think she can be…saved. She’s lingering, guys. We can’t pretend it’s not happening. Who knows what might have happened to her when she went through that portal. Remember Angel, getting all sucked up by Acathla, only to show up again a few months later?”

Oh yeah, he remembered that just fine.

“Angel was sent to hell, Will,” Xander reminded her, his voice as tense as the rest of his body.

“Exactly,” Willow said. “And while the two of us could spend a few more hours or decades arguing whether or not he deserved to stay in hell, my point is…do you think Dawn does?”

_That_ silence was heavy. And long.

And _man_ , he was going to need a lot more doughnuts.

“What’s your blueprint-y plan, then?” He finally asked her.

“Dunno yet,” Willow admitted with an honest shrug. “But I’m gonna need to get my hands on those Monks’ ritual.


	4. Chapter Four

When Buffy was made to pack up her room in LA in preparation for their move to Sunnydale, she’d complained about it the way sixteen year olds did: a lot. She’d been another sort of mess, back then. Freshly called, freshly kicked out of school, freshly told her parents were divorcing…

And yet, her biggest complaint at the time had been only being allowed three boxes to put her clothes in.

Having to pack up the house she’d spent the last five years living in had given her a new perspective on the whole thing, along with many opportunities to emphasize with what her Mom had gone through, wishing she’d been more helpful at the time, more sympathetic.

Buffy wished for many things, these days. Never out loud, though.

Packing became somewhat easier once she decided to leave most of their belongings behind, anything she wouldn’t need in her new place; deciding what wasn’t worth keeping had _not_ been easy. She found herself giving meaning to the most random of objects, simply because she vaguely remembered her Mom using it at one point or another.

In some ways, not having a single memento of Dawn for her to keep made things simpler. Not easier, but…simpler.

Her friends regularly offered to help, but she always declined. This forced triage was almost cathartic, in some twisted way, as if the universe was telling her this was another one of these moments when she was truly, irrevocably alone, and it was up to her again to make the right choices. No mother, no sister, no…father. What was left?

_Me_.

Buffy found some comfort in this. In knowing that she’d been there before. Kind of. She’d been shrouded in darkness, oppressed with guilt, plagued with loneliness, all those depressing metaphors and then some. She’d thought herself helpless, then, too tired to fight, too tired to try, just as she did now. Yet…she’d made it.

Maybe someday, she’d make it again.

Surprisingly enough, Anya turned out to be the most helpful of her friends in the process. The young shop owner had made it clear that she despised anything to do with packing and moving, but put her in charge of the ‘memorandum of sale’ (whatever that meant), and she became unstoppable. The fact that Buffy didn’t want to know anything about whoever it was who ended up buying her mother’s house pleased Anya beyond measure. By the time all the proper papers had been signed, verified, and faxed, all Buffy knew was that it was ‘some foreigner from Europe’.

All she had to do now was…move.

She’d called Xander for the occasion. Again, the rest of the gang – with one exception – had volunteered to help, but she couldn’t stand the thought that they might try using this to pull some kind of intervention on her again.

Xander felt…safe. He always did, in moments like this one. Plus…

“You’re the only one of my friends who can get me one of those big trucks to move my stuff around, and get it for free,” she’d told him, in her best imitation of perky!Buffy.

He’d smiled a little too brightly at that, equally delighted and relieved that she was still able to make jokes. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that her ability to pun had never been a sure way to gauge her state of mind.

She stood in the living room, now, barely registering Xander’s footsteps as he came back downstairs.

“I’ve checked every room, and it’s official: there shall be no stray boxes left behind.”

Buffy kept on staring at the couch she’d decided to leave behind.

“Are you thinking about how these windows will never have to be repaired again?” He asked, now standing right behind her. “Because I am.”

The corners of her mouth pulled slightly, appreciating his efforts. “Something like that,” she said, before turning away, glancing at the rest of the room.

The upstairs bedrooms and the kitchen were by far the rooms that had been stripped the most, but this one hadn’t been spared either. It was now missing too many of its key furniture, all carefully stacked inside the truck outside, and there was no more personal items decorating the walls.

Once again, she felt like she was looking at an odd, distorted version of something that used to be familiar and comforting.

Xander put a warm hand on her shoulder, and she didn’t flinch at the touch, even meeting his eyes, something she wouldn’t have been able to do only a week ago. He hadn’t once tried reminiscing about everything that had happened in this room, or anywhere else in the house, for which she was grateful.

They did share a rather long look, though, before he tilted his head toward the entrance door.

“Ready?”

She wasn’t.

But after all, she rarely was.

…

There were few things that got his blood flowing the way a good fight did. Figuratively speaking o’ course – lack of actual circulation and all.

Although he could think of a couple things that required his blood to physically flow places. Actually, he _had_ experienced a few memorable fights in his un-life that got his blood moving alright.

Point of the matter was, Spike loved kicking ass. He was damn good at it, too.

Most of those newborn vampires he ended up wrestling with these days could barely throw a couple punches before he got so bored he’d end their torment with a stake through the heart. When he was _really_ bored, he pretended to be worse than they were, just to make it last longer – and for entertainment value.

Which explained why he was currently ‘pinned’ to the ground with two dirt-covered hands around his throat, the weakling having only escaped his grave a couple minutes ago.

“Oh bugger,” Spike said, his voice barely strangled at all, unable not to sound as bored as he felt. “Look at me. How ‘m I _ever_ to get out of this?”

His tone was enough to make the vampire freeze on top of him, relaxing his grip on his neck. “Dude,” he said, offended.

“Sorry, mate,” Spike said, anything but sorry, punching him with enough force to make him let go with a pained cry, and Spike swiftly got back on his feet. When the wimp managed to scramble back up, Spike smirked at him. “Show me what you got, then.”

The vampire growled in frustration, launching forward…only to turn into dust mid-pounce, the stake that had pierced his chest falling to the ground.

Spike turned around to see who’d just thrown the damn thing, quickly spotting…Buffy.

Except that it wasn’t Buffy at all. She did look eerily realistic, now, to Red’s credit; no more pink skirts for her, dressed in the same attire she’d worn on the night they’d used her against Glory.

“What the f.... bloody hell!” He protested. “What d’you do that for?”

“He was a vampire,” she said calmly. “I kill vampires.”

“He was my vampire,” he complained. “How many times do we need to have this conversation? I’ve told you to stay away from my turf.”

She regarded him as if he were an interesting specimen, tilting her head. “Have I upset you?”

Red’d done a good job at making the damn thing sound a bit more human, too, but that was about it. She was mere meters away from him, and all he could smell was that odd robot smell that was a bit more than machine yet anything but human.

He scoffed. “To upset me, I’d have to care about you, pet,” he said flatly.

The Bot tilted her head the other way. “You don’t love me anymore, do you?”

He rolled his eyes, searching for his pack of cigarettes. “Thought the bloody Witch had reprogrammed you to stop with all that lovey-dovey crap.”

“Willow?” The Bot pondered. “She has reprogrammed me extensively. However, it seems that you are at the very core of my systems, which makes it difficult for her to erase you. She complains about you a lot!”

Spike sneered, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Yeah, well, feeling’s mutual,” he said, looking back at the Bot.

She was still staring at him with that head tilt and those big, questioning eyes. He hated the damn thing simply for having it built in the first place. Yet the fact that he was responsible for its existence made him feel oddly...responsible.

“T’s nothing personal, alright?” He said, although that wasn’t entirely true. “You just…look like Buffy, is all.”

More blinking. “I am Buffy.”

He was about to retort that no, she was nothing like her, when he remembered he shouldn’t bother. She was a _robot_ , and not one with the highest IQ, at that.

She was, however, a robot with a core programming that made it impossible for her to lie to him.

“Tell me, luv, have you seen her, lately? The…less pleasant Buffy.”

He knew she’d moved a few days back, just as he knew it wouldn’t be too hard to find her; all he had to do was follow one of her mates from the shop until they led him there, but if the Bot could save him the extra trouble…

“I have not seen the original Buffy, no,” she said, “although she is being discussed _a lot_.”

“How so?”

To his mild amusement – and a hint of revulsion, she launched herself into a speedy monologue, quoting each member of the Scoobies. She couldn’t change her voice completely, but the speech patterns and mannerisms were spot on, despite the flow of words.

“Maybe we should get her to go see a shrink I don’t think a shrink is going to help her cope with her fabricated sister dying from jumping into a mystical portal she really needs to stop moping and get herself a job I’m willing to let her come clerk at the shop as long as she doesn’t ask for dental she needs time I don’t think p-p-pressuring her will do her any good I just wish she’d go back to fighting though there’s only so much I can get the bot to do what if there’s another apocalypse it’s not like a robot can –”

Spike had heard enough, raising his hand to stop her, regarding the Bot for a few moments as he finished his cigarette. “D’you know where she lives, now?”

“The address has indeed been uploaded to my ‘ _In case of emergency’_ subfile. Would you like me to take you there?”

“Won’t need a guide,” he answered, a bit too smugly. “Just point the way.”

The bloody Bot extended an arm, and pointed toward the east.

…

It used to be so simple.

He would show up at her place, hide in the shadows for a bit, smoke a pack or two, and if he were lucky, she’d come out and smack him in the face…when he didn’t shamelessly trespass to go steal a couple of her undies.

There’d be none of that, here.

Standing in front of her building’s main entrance, he felt like a right idiot. Not only would he have to be _buzzed_ in, but now that she’d moved, his invitation’d been revoked again. He doubted that if he pressed that _Summers_ button on the intercom panel, she’d jumped onto the opportunity and simply let him in.

He couldn’t stay there, though; he’d already been stared at by a couple of passer-by. Any other town, and the cops would’ve shown up already.

Grumbling internally at the mundanity of it all, Spike pressed the intercom button…and waited. When at least a minute passed and nothing happened, he pressed it again. And again.

The line opened at last. _“Hello_? _”_

She didn’t sound too good. Like he’d woken her up from the kind of sleep that wasn’t that restful. Spike opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. What was he supposed to say?

He really had not thought that through. Typical.

_“Hello?”_ She sounded peeved, now, probably regretting dragging herself to the door for this.

“Slayer,” he growled at last, before rolling his eyes at himself.

A pause, and then: _“Spike?”_

Damn it. “Why don’t you come and find out?” He taunted her, his voice low and rumbling.

_“Find what out? That you’ve tracked me to my new place? Am I supposed to be shocked?”_

He dropped the voice and the attitude, sighing loudly enough for her to hear. “Look, I got your whole ‘Leave me the fuck alone’ memo, but there’s something you need to hear about. I’ll wait here, you can come down and find out for yourself.”

Bollocks, all of it, and he was pretty sure she’d call his bluff as quickly as she’d recognised his voice.

To his surprise, the buzz of the door being unlocked chimed in the air; it wouldn’t be enough to get him inside her apartment, but that was a start.

He stepped inside the building, breathing deeply, making for the stairs as soon as he picked up her scent. He’d already climbed three stories when he stopped. The Slayer stood at the top of the last flight of stairs, arms crossed, visibly annoyed that he’d gotten her out at all.

Since he did not actually have anything specific to say, or the right sentence hadn’t popped in his head yet, he simply peered at her from below, taking in her appearance. Loose sweatpants, thin tank top, hair tied low in a rather messy ponytail; her collarbone looked sharp enough to cut, a glaring sign of weight loss. Even in the dim light of the staircase, he could see the shadows under her eyes.

She was still a hundred times more beautiful than the Bot would ever be, with its perfect makeup and bright smiles.

“Spike,” she said, her voice weary, obviously disliking the fact that he was staring. “What do you want?”

_So many things, pet_ , he didn’t say.

“D’you know your mates got the Bot patrolling cemeteries?” He did say.

Buffy shrugged. “So?” She was beyond apathetic at this point.

He stared at her in indignation, exaggerating the feeling, although in truth, it wasn’t too difficult to fake. “ _So_ ,” he repeated. “How long you’re gonna let this piece of scrap do your job?”

Her arms tightened around herself, averting her eyes. “It’s not my job anymore. I’ve quit.”

“Psssh,” he scoffed with a wave of his hand, and she looked back at him. “Can’t quit a mystical calling, pet, and you know it. If you didn’t care anymore, you wouldn’t’ve let me in so quickly.”

She uncrossed her arms, briefly bringing a hand to her temple, eyes closed, as if fighting off a headache. “I _don’t_ care,” she countered him. “They can get Faith out of prison if they need an active slayer. I’ve paid my dues. I’m done.”

And she turned around, walking toward the unlit corridor.

“Never figured you for a coward before,” he called out, having already climbed the few remaining steps to the landing.

Buffy stilled, wavering between darkness and light; he should congratulate himself for pressing down where it hurts on his first attempt. He couldn’t see her face, yet he knew he’d caused her pain.

He stood there, expectant, waiting for her comeback, for her words to slash him deep in retaliation; he would take it. It’d take anything, if it meant getting a reaction from her.

But the seconds went on, and she remained silent.

“That’s it, then,” he said. “You’re really gonna spend the rest of your life hiding in the dark.”

She sighed, tilting her head back in exasperation, or at least a shadow of what that emotion used to look on her.

“I’ve heard it all before, trust me,” she said. “I’ve got people taking it in turn trying to make me do things I don’t care about doing anymore.”

Spike had begun approaching her, slowly. She was still facing away from him, and he was as quiet as he knew how to be, yet he could already see the minute changes in her posture. Her body was tensing, reacting to his looming presence, her nerves undoubtedly tingling in warning.

“You may be able to fool them into thinking you’ve quit for good, but I don’t buy into your bullshit, Summers,” he spoke, his voice once again low; it couldn’t be more different from the tone he’d used outside, though. He was still coming closer, and she was letting him. “Slaying’s not just a job for you, never was. It's like an addiction you need to feed. It runs through your veins, it's embedded in your skin. It calls to you like a drug. That need to hunt, to chase, to rip us limb from limb with wood and fists, until we're left blowing in the wind.”

He was close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, to feel her heart pumping within his own chest; his presence was having an effect on her, unable to conceal that slight increase in her pulse. “Tell me your entire being isn’t screaming at you, Slayer," Spike leaned into her side and inhaled the smell of her. "Tell me it’s not urging you to _kick my ass_.”

As he finished breathing the words into her ear, he brought a hand up to grab at her neck, the way he would any prey, the chip remaining dormant as he did not intend to harm.

Buffy’s instincts did _not_ remain dormant.

The instant his fingers brushed her skin, she came alive at his touch, taking a hold of his arm, twisting it as she span around. The heel of her free hand found his nose, as it had so many times before, causing an audible _crack_ , before her foot found his sternum, sending him crashing into the wall.

He was back on his feet in one fluid movement, smirking in sheer satisfaction, licking blood off his lips, which earned him a familiar, disgusted scowl. “There you are,” he jeered at her as he started approaching her again, ready to dance.

But she shook her head, the scowl already gone, her fire put out as quickly as it’d flared up. “I know what you’re trying to do. It’s not gonna work,” she told him, wearily.

Frustrated, and _longing_ for that dance, he pounced, intending to hurt this time, knowing full well he couldn’t, but he wanted her to defend herself and join the bloody fight.

The chip fired, pain shouting from deep within his brain and spreading like forest fire, waves of electricity travelling through his nervous system.

When he became coherent enough to let go of his head and look around, Buffy had gone.

There was no point in him following her. He could spend the whole damn night banging at her door, it wouldn’t make a sodding difference; the barrier protecting her place would keep him out, just like that even thicker wall she was hiding behind.

He was so pissed off, he didn’t look around before making for the stairs, resulting in him violently colliding with…someone, instantly causing the chip to fire again, leading to a chorus of pained yelps.

“Bloody _hell_!” He snapped as soon as he was able to speak again.

“Sorry,” Willow said, barely sounding sorry at all…until she took a better look at him. “Ouch,” she grimaced, staring at his face. “What happened to you?”

He scoffed. “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count,” he said, wiping at his nose, which was still bleeding profusely, flicking the blood off his fingers and spattering the ground with it.

“Buffy _hit_ you?” The Witch sounded genuinely shocked.

He gave her a look. “Where’ve you been these past few years?”

“No, I mean, I know you guys hit each other. A lot.” Understatement of the century – he would know. “I’m just surprised she hit anyone at all, since lately she’s mostly been …you know. Not hitting things.”

There was a bit too much hope in the wicca’s voice, as if her friend breaking his nose meant she was miraculously cured from clinical depression. “Yeah well, I wouldn’t wet my pants over it, Red. It’s my face she’s smashed in. Doesn’t really count.”

He started down the stairs, stopping after a couple steps to face her again. “I’d definitely cheer you on if you gave her a good kick for me when you get in, though. God knows she needs it,” he muttered, storming down, oblivious to the Witch’s changing expression as she stared at the trail of blood he’d left across the cheap linoleum.

…

Truth was, Willow was a little mad at Giles.

And by ‘a little’, she meant ‘a lot’. And by ‘mad’, she meant ‘all kind of horrified and upset’.

She knew she’d always been a bit too naïve; it’d been kind of a running joke in their group. _Look at Willow, so naïve and reliable, hahaha!_

She’d done a lot of growing up, though; she’d learned the hard way that the people you loved and admired could betray you. That actually, people you loved and admired tended to be the ones who betrayed you in the worst possible ways, because they were the ones who could hurt you the most.

Still, there were some authoritative and guiding figures she’d expected to remain authoritative and…guiding. Sure, she’d known for a few years that Giles wasn’t all crisp suits and cups of tea, not after that ‘once raised a demon that killed my friends’ business.

But he’d still been _Giles_.

She didn’t know how to reconcile the Giles she’d come to know and trust with the Giles who’d drugged her best friend and pushed her fourteen year old sister into an energy vortex. Or, let her jump in. Not that it mattered.

Something horrible had happened that night, something he was in big part responsible for.

And yet, during that last conversation they had before he left, he’d still behaved all Watcherish with them, while she and Xander stood there in his living room, like the high schoolers they used to be.

“Those volumes will be helpful,” he’d said, having put said volumes on the table. “If you go back to the construction site, you should be able to map the frequencies of the doors that were most prominent while the portal was open. It will help you narrow down your locating spells. I’m afraid how the rest plays out will be up to you.”

He’d carried on moving around the room while he talked, grabbing items and throwing them into the two suitcases he’d laid open on the floor. He’d not looked at them once since he’d found them standing at his doorstep; he’d launched himself into his latest theory as soon as they were in, as if it was a regular Scooby meeting.

The fact that he’d been (correctly) theorizing that there might be some vicious, interdimensional demons on the loose _had_ been slightly worrying, especially with a Slayer who wasn’t up to doing much slaying at the moment. But his ‘lalalaaa’ attitude had been…disconcerting, considering what he’d done earlier that day.

He only stopped moving when Xander had cleared his throat, loudly.

“How is she?” He’d asked, eventually, his back to them.

Willow had almost winced, throwing Xander a side look; he hadn’t been doing any better. They’d both had a chance to change, by then, but none of them had slept yet.

“Remember the service station, with all the unresponsiveness?” Xander had asked in his jokey voice, his eyes anything but jokey. “Well, that’s about how she is. Except that she’s responsive.”

“It had to be done,” was all Giles could say.

“M’okay,” Xander had replied, the fake cheerfulness gone from his voice. “Not sure Buffy will ever see it that way.”

Giles had turned slightly, still not looking at them, but they were able to see his profile. He’d looked paler than Buffy did on that day; that was saying something. “Probably not. The Monks counted on that when they turned the Key into a human being. It’s part of her calling, to protect the innocent. And she proved many times that it’s one of her most prominent personality traits, beyond her sense of duty.”

“But…” Willow had said, breathless, at a loss for words. “Dawnie…” She couldn’t finish.

Silence had stretched, Willow quietly wiping the tears that were rolling down her cheeks again.

“She was very brave,” Giles had said, at last. “She…knew, what had to be done, what she had to do. She sacrificed herself to save us all.”

Willow had glanced up at that, noting that Giles was actually looking at her. She’d averted her eyes, tightening her arms around herself, unable to look at him. She used to be naïve; not anymore. And Xander…Xander had always been somewhat more insightful than her in those situations.

They all knew that if Dawn hadn’t jumped, Giles would have pushed.

“When are you leaving?”

Willow had looked at her best friend, who’d appeared more grown up than she’d ever seen him. When he had joined her at the Summers residence, that morning, and Willow had told him what Buffy had said about Giles being responsible for Dawn’s death, he hadn’t try to deny it the way she had. He’d accepted it. He’d also been the one to suggest they went and found him, the following evening.

“My flight leaves at 8.30, tomorrow morning,” Giles had said. “Once I’m settled, I will fax Anya all the necessary documents to sign over the ownership of the shop.”

They hadn’t asked about his place and what would happen to it, hadn’t asked where exactly he was going, or what he was going to do.

Willow had felt more than a little mad, then.

“So that’s it,” she’d said, bravely looking up at that man she used to admire so much. “You’re just gonna leave us to clean up your mess?”

“Will…” Xander had said softly, and when he tried to put a hand on her, she’d withdrawn from his touch.

“No, it’s all just…” she’d breathed loudly, upset and annoyed and sad.

She should have been happy. She’d saved Tara, she’d _done_ it. She should have been ecstatic with joy and pride, but she hadn’t been able to even have a proper conversation with her girlfriend yet, because she had to deal with her best friend having just lost her little sister, barely two months after losing her mother.

Oh and by the way, her best friend’s father figure also happened to be responsible for said sister’s death!

“ _Men_ ,” she’d pointed angrily at Giles, before briefly facing Xander, “sorry, but,” back at Giles. “Men!” She’d pointed again. When Giles had the nerves to look condescending at that, it’d fueled her anger. “Of course she’s going catatonic on us! Angel? Tortures and kills her friends, then once he’s all nice again, he dumps her and leaves her. Riley? Normal guy, not so normal after all, who gets himself sucked up by lady vampires because ‘insecure’, then dumps her and leaves her. And _you_. You…you _drugged_ her, Giles. You drugged her, and you let Dawn die, and now you’re leaving, too!”

“My wish to leave Sunnydale and return to England is nothing new, as you know,” Giles eventually said, somewhat subdued, but not excessively shaken up by Willow’s accusations. “Given the current…circumstances, I cannot stay here. If you need my help, I will always respond, but my work here is done.”

This next silence had been worse than any others.

“You should not wait any longer before returning to the construction site,” he’d continued, business like. “The more time passes, the fainter the traces will be.”

_Just like Dawn_ , none of them said.

Only moments later, when she and Xander had been on their way out, Xander having already walked through the door with the books, obviously eager to get away from the place, Giles had tried halting Willow by putting a hand on her shoulder. He’d not realized the depth of her resentment, or how unwise a move it would be, to touch her. He’d quickly stepped back, as if shocked with electricity.

Which, technically, wasn’t too far from what did happen, except that he’d been shocked with magic.

Willow had felt it, then, that raw power she’d unlocked only days ago when she’d gone to Glory for revenge, or later on in that service station when she’d kept the army at bay.

Or the night before, when she’d ripped out of a God what had been torn from her lover.

Giles had felt it too. He’d stood too close, still, looking…pitiful, with his scruffy clothes, and his scruffy stubble, and his bloodshot eyes that were almost as empty as Buffy’s.

No, not pitiful.

Pathetic.

“Do be careful, Willow,” he’d spoken quietly, sounding almost genuinely concerned. “You’ve dabbled in some remarkably dark magic these past few days. And while it assuredly saved us all, you are treading a fine, dangerous line, now. I would hate for you to lose yourself in it.”

For one suspended instant, Willow had wanted to sneer, to tell him that their victory was due to her and her alone indeed, that she had brought life back into Tara while all he’d brought was death. She’d wanted to mock the old librarian, taunt him about how he used to be powerful too, about how he used to matter so much to them, only to be reduced to this pathetic shell of a man who murdered little girls because ‘it had to be done’.

The urge had passed, the somber surge of magic receding. It felt like the words had been spoken, anyway.

She’d forced herself to smile then, giving him a hint of that Willow-smile she used to give him so often all these years ago, when he still mattered.

“Don’t worry about me,” she’d said. “You know me. Good old, reliable Willow.”

Giles had not smiled back.

A few weeks had passed since then, yet she’d been unable to push his warnings out of her mind.

She’d read about witches and warlocks succumbing to dark magic. She’d researched the topic extensively the previous year after D’Hoffryn had offered her a job. That was what Willow did when she panicked a little. Buried herself in books, browsed the internet for hours, took detailed notes. And being told she had enough darkness in her to become a _demon_ had been ground for panic. And really, she’d been fine after that.

Until Glory stuck her fingers into Tara’s head and drove her insane, that was.

She’d not performed any dark magic since Dawn’s death, but she felt its potential in every spell she performed, now, sensed that it wouldn’t take much to tip the scale. To turn something harmless into something a lot less harmless. And if she were honest with herself, it tempted her.

She was itching with a desire to do more, _bigger_ , better, more often.

If not for Tara, she knew she would have caved in long ago. Tara had taken on the role of her moral compass, and Willow didn’t like it one bit, since she was confident she had enough control over her magicks not to need to be restrained. She knew Tara was more…grounded, though. Her anchor, keeping her locked onto this plane.

She’d been uneasy when Willow first suggested using magic to bring Dawn back, but she’d come to see things her way, eventually. When she came back from Buffy’s that night and told her what had been brewing in her mind ever since her exchange with Spike, Tara wasn’t so accepting.

“You can’t do that,’ she said point blank, sitting up better on the bed; she’d been lying on her stomach up until that point, trying to finish a late-term paper she’d not been able to hand in on time because of crazies.

Her voice was so stern that Willow frowned a little. “Well, maybe not _exactly_ like that, sure, but I know I can find a way to – ”

“No,” Tara cut her off, her voice much louder than her usually quiet tone.

Willow immediately thought back to the argument they’d had a few weeks back, the argument that had led Tara to Glory. The memory of what had happened then was enough to make most of her growing irritation falter.

Something must have shown on her face, because Tara’s expression changed, too, became sadder.

“I’m sorry,” Tara said softly. “I don’t mean…” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t want you to feel like I don’t believe in you, or your magicks. You’re so p-powerful, Willow. I know you can do whatever you set your mind to. It’s just…sometimes, I think you need someone to stop you.”

Willow pouted a little. “I just…I want to help her, you know?”

“I know,” Tara said, leaving the bed to walk to her, taking her hands in hers and giving her fingers a squeeze. “Magic’s not always the solution, though. We can’t… _force_ her to get better. And what you’re suggesting…it’s too dangerous. Even if I don’t think he would try to really hurt her, not anymore, it’s still…iffy. And the magic you’d have to use would affect her, too, even indirectly. She’s had enough people in her life making choices for her without ever asking her. Don’t become one of them.”

Willow nodded again, leaning forward until Tara’s lips were on her forehead, her fingers in her hair. She knew she was probably right, moral compass and all. If she said this was a big ‘no no’, there had to be a part of truth to it. And yet, even as her lungs filled with Tara’s smell and she let herself be soothed, the threads in the back of her head were already weaving together, her plan becoming clearer, stronger.

Because Tara hadn’t seen Buffy tonight, in the aftermath of her altercation with Spike. She hadn’t sensed how much more alert she’d seemed; so much more alive, and so much more… _Buffy_. This was the way to go, and Willow knew it.

She already knew it when she collected Spike’s blood from the ground.


	5. Chapter Five

Someone was knocking on his crypt’s door.

Spike ignored it, taking another swig of whiskey. _Passion_ was on, and Deborah looked just about to use that kitchen knife to gut Steven, having just learned that he’d gotten her twin sister’s pregnant.

“I thought she was you, darling,” Spike predicted in his best _pillock-with-feelings_ voice.

“ _I thought she was you, my love_ ,” Steven was now saying, still unaware that his fiancé had grabbed a knife, although that was one _big_ knife, and the camera kept zooming on it.

More knocking.

“T’s not like the bloody door’s locked!” he called out, annoyed. He had a good inkling who was calling on him at this hour. There weren’t that many people in his un-life who’d _knock_ before coming in.

Sure enough, a familiar scent reached his nostrils seconds after the door opened. He didn’t bother with a greeting, having sat up, tongue between his teeth. Deborah had raised her knife, Steven backed against the counter.

_“You should have looked into my eyes and realized she wasn’t me, Stevie! You were supposed to know my soul!”_

“Go for the kidneys, Debbie,” Spike encouraged her. “He’ll die more slowly that way.”

And then, the telly was off, Willow having unceremoniously pushed the button.

“Hell no!” he shouted, springing out of his armchair. “D’you know how long I’ve waited for this tosser to kick it?”

At _least_ ten days.

He’d come close enough to the Witch to grab her and throw her away from his telly. Which he obviously couldn’t do. He still stood uncomfortably close to her, resisting the urge to let his demon out, towering over her. To her credit, she didn’t even flinch, looking up at him with a pout that was all kind of condescending, rising her brow as if to say ‘ _Really?_ ’

Sometimes he forgot she’d been the first person to learn about his…performance issues, and that she was therefore immune to fear in his proximity.

Spike deflated, stepping out of her personal space with a frustrated grumble, before letting himself fall onto his chair. “Make it quick.”

Confidence seemed to be slowly trickling out of the redhead now, as she sway a little in front of his tv set. “I was…wondering a few things,” she said, tentatively. “I thought maybe…you could answer a couple questions for me.”

He glowered at her. “’s this a survey for one of your classes?”

She let out an odd, nervous chuckle. “Funny,” she said, despite the lack of funny.

He sat back more comfortably as he peered at her. One obvious reason for her being this edgy would be that she was doing something she shouldn’t be doing, something the rest of her Scoobies would disapprove of. _That_ alone was enough to intrigue him.

Not as much as _Passion,_ but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Waiting, here,” he said.

She swayed a little more. “Ok. I was wondering…hypothetically speaking, of course, if you were able to…let’s say, hit Buffy again. Would you try to kill her?”

His frown became a full blown scowl, staring at her in confusion. “You’ve gone completely carrot-top, haven’t you?”

She ignored the nag. She was getting her nerves under control, less fidgety now, staring at him hard. “Would you?

Spike stared back, briefly entertaining the thought of carrying on poking fun at her. It didn’t feel _that_ entertaining, though, which is why he sighed, rolling the bottom of his bottle on the arm of his comfy chair.

“T’s an interesting concept, Red,” he said. When she didn’t reply, he continued. “Truth is, I couldn’t kill the Slayer when I _wanted_ to kill her, when I truly, deeply wanted her dead, the way I did the other two who crossed my path.”

“I know, I’ve watched you fail at it a couple times.” When she saw the offended look on his face, she quickly added. “But, you know, when you were still, _grrrrr_ , she did consider you a real threat, not just one of those ‘All talk, no actual blood bath’ kind of demons she deals with most days. Or…dealt with.”

“Thanks,” he said sardonically.

“You didn’t answer my question, though,” she prodded. “Would you –”

“Would I kill her now if I could?” He finished for her, and she nodded.

He remembered the last time he’d truly felt that urge to _hurt_ her, a few months back, that night at the Bronze. He’d told Buffy more about himself than he ever had anyone, only to have her use this knowledge to humiliate him, reducing him to William the _Weepy_ for one repulsing moment. He’d grabbed that shotgun and gone to her house with the intent to kill her alright.

He’d found himself sitting by her side instead, helplessly trying to comfort her while she cried for her mum. All he’d done in the end was sit there in silence, listening to her talk about her fears while the tears dried from her cheeks, their salty scent slowly evaporating into the night air.

Would he kill her now, when that death wish of hers had to be stronger than it’d ever been before?

Spike took a long swallow from his bottle, eventually giving a short, shake of his head. “’course I wouldn’t kill her.”

Silence settled and stretched, until…

“Okay, then!” Red peeped, a bit too enthusiastically. “Just checking!” She span around and turned the telly back on.

He eyed her suspiciously, before sitting up at the edge of his seat again, having just realised the show’d been interrupted by one of its many commercial breaks, the scene having barely resumed; by some bloody miracle, Debbie was still standing a mere meter away from Steven, knife raised.

By the time they were making out against the microwave and Spike had slumped back into his chair, disappointed, Willow had long left his crypt.

…

As strange as it was to admit, Buffy had been having kind of a good week.

Not an ‘ _everything’s peachy and wonderful’_ kind of week, but at least she’d gotten dressed every single day, and met up with her friends a few times while the sun was out.

Earlier today, when she’d been at the coffee shop with Willow and Tara, the three of them had even discussed the possibility of Buffy auditing some of their classes this summer, until she could sign up for the fall semester in a month or so . While the prospect of going back to school would have been daunting only two weeks ago, the idea felt less overwhelming, now.

So, yeah.  Relatively good week for Buffy. Which had led her to make this very, very bad decision she regretted making the instant she agreed to it. Yet there she was.

Inside the Bronze.

Sure, she was leaving her apartment nearly on a daily basis now, and she ate almost two meals a day, but going to a club on a busy Friday night, with all the music and the noise and the _people_?

Ugh.

Alright, it _had_ felt kinda nice to open her wardrobe and actually look at what she was picking, for once. She’d even brushed her hair and teeth. Putting on an outfit that belonged to her previous life had felt…odd. Like she was allowing herself to pretend, just for a little while.

Now all she could do was hope that the anxiety already rising in the pit of her stomach wasn’t going to snap her back to reality before she could even find her friends.

Yet again, she could count on Xander to come to her rescue.

“Hey, Buffster!”

She spotted him easily enough, hard to miss with both his arms waving above his head, grinning so hard he looked like Christmas had come six months early. Buffy forced herself to smile back as she approached their table, her discomfort growing at the sight of the two couples being so…coupley. It’d been months since Riley had left, yet this definitely wasn’t getting any easier, being the literal fifth wheel.

Apparently, they’d decided to take care of that, too.

“We got you a date,” Anya announced as soon as Buffy was close enough to hear.

Her forced smile froze, while the others made various faces at Anya’s latest blunder.

“Ahn,” her boyfriend chastised her softly, as he always did. “This is the _opposite_ of easing her in on the idea, she hasn’t even sat down yet.”

Buffy did sit down, or rather, sank heavily onto her seat, looking at all four of them in turn. “Please tell me she’s joking,” she asked Willow, whose uncomfortable smile and small shake of the head was answer enough. “A _date_ ,” she turned on Anya.

“His name’s Richard, he works with Xander,” the ex-demon said, oblivious to Buffy’s glower. “He fits most of your criteria. He’s tall and muscular, and bonus point, he definitely has a soul.”

Buffy turned her glare on Xander, who recoiled a little. “ A date?” She repeated.

He shrugged apologetically. “Look, it’s not a _date_ date. I told him we would all be here tonight, and I might have suggested he should join us.”

“You also told him your hot single friend would be there,” Anya reminded him.

_Hot single friend_.

“That’s not exactly how I phrased it,” Xander tried defending himself, more than a little uncomfortable at the looks he was getting from every woman around their table. “He’s a nice guy, Buff. You’re a nice girl. I just figured…why not double the niceness.”

A familiar feeling pinched her insides, her cheeks flushing in frustration. “What about you ask me first if I’m interested in dating any _nice guy_ before making the decision for me?” She was already rising from her seat.

“No, Buffy, don’t go,” Willow pleaded. “You don’t have to date anyone yet, Xander can give him a call and tell him to stay home.”

“Not really my point,” Buffy muttered, more to herself than to them, aware that they weren’t really listening anyway. “I’m just…I’ll see you later.”

She let them argue with each other, making her way back through the crowd, more irritated than anxious, now. This was so typical of her friends. Never mind the fact that _this_ , going out in the first place, was a big deal for her. No, she was still Single!Buffy in need of some loving from tall, muscular guys.

Sometimes she felt like her friends didn’t understand her at all these days – if ever. One thing for sure, they were very good at staying in their perfect little bubble, preferring to think she was ‘all better now’, rather than see she was hanging by a thread.

She’d almost made it to the door when a familiar tingle crept up her nape.

“Well done, Slayer. You made it a grand total of two-hundred-and-forty-three seconds.”

She paused, already rolling her eyes, turning around to find Spike sitting at his favorite low table. “Do you ever get tired of following me around?”

He scowled and huffed in offense, pointing at one of the many posters that decorated the inside of the Bronze.

_Onion Blossoms Friday!_ They all read. _Get a beer, get one free!_

“T’s not always about you, luv.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “What is it with you and those things? You’re seriously obsessed.”

He rose an eyebrow. “Jealous?” She rolled her eyes again. “What can I say, I’m a passionate bloke. Anything I love, I worship it body ‘n soul.”

“You don’t have a so –” she automatically replied, but he interrupted her with a wave of his hand.

“I know, got no soul, blah dee blah blaaah,” he popped a piece of fried onion into his mouth, followed by a suggestive noise. “ _Mmm_ …C’mon, Summers,” he said, his mouth full. “Can’t deny how tasty those buggers are. Even with my taste buds I can tell you that much, and they barely work with human food.”

“Wouldn’t know,” she shrugged. “Never tried them.”

Spike actually stopped chewing, his eyes rounding. “Never tried…” he let his voice trail, before kicking one of the free seats with his foot, the chair scrapping the floor, stopping right in front of her. “Sit.”

“Aaand that’s my cue to leave,” she responded, turning around.

“That’s your cue to sit your bony arse down and eat some fried food, that’s what it bloody is.”

She found herself almost offended, turning back around. “I could so kick _your_ arse for that.”

He scoffed, using his foot to move the chair even closer to her. “Just sit down, pet. It’s not like your tiny apartment is going anywhere.”

Two months ago, she might have used that chair to fashion herself a stake and make him shut up once and for all. Yet again, two months ago, she wouldn’t have left her friends; she would have been sitting with them, waiting for _Richard_ to show up, instead of wondering what any of them would say if she did sit down with Spike of all people.

Why should she worry about what any of them thought, anyway? It wasn’t like any of them worried about what _she_ thought, or wanted, constantly trying to micro-manage her life without ever asking for her opinion.

To both their surprise, Buffy sat down.

Spike seemed to recover from his shock before she was done bringing her seat closer to the table, or he was very good at covering it up.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve taken it upon yourself to make sure I ate?” She couldn’t help but ask, remembering their brief encounter in her kitchen, a few weeks back, when he’d made her cocoa and failed to make her drink it.

He shrugged, taking a swig of his beer. “Probably ‘cause that’s exactly what I’m doing.” Before she could protest, he added: “I know you can take care of yourself. Old habits, is all. Spent decades making sure Dru fed whenever she had one of her depressive episodes, didn’t I.”

She scowled. “You didn’t just compare me to your nutty, soulless ex-girlfriend.”

“Don’t be like that,” he said, his voice suddenly much quieter. “She was nuts, yeah. And boy, was she a Princess of Darkness. But she knew a thing or two ‘bout those inner demons you’re fighting. Despair doesn’t discriminate, luv. It just creeps from within and breaks your spirit down. Don’t need a soul for that.”

Buffy found herself unexpectedly subdued by his statement. Subdued and almost…mollified.

When she kept on staring at him, he tilted his head. “What?”

“That was strangely profound,” she said, and she meant it.

He half-shrugged. “Yeah, well, I keep tellin’ you there’s more to me than meet the eye. I’ve got _layers_ , you know. Just like – ”

“Please don’t say onions.”

“ – onion blossoms.”

She was about to scorn him for how _lame_ that was, when she was interrupted.

“Buffy?”

She turned around, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

There stood Xander, accompanied by a tall, muscular man she assumed was the Nice Guy. She didn’t have time to think much about his identity, her stomach sinking at the look on her best friend’s face.

“Really?” He said, with a smile and a tone she’d heard many times before, the tone that let her know he was upset, about to get sarcastic, and possibly mean. “So _that’s_ why you blew us off after thirty seconds. My bad, I didn’t realize you already had a date with Bleached Boy here.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, while irritation and embarrassment battled for dominance inside of her.

_Actually, I’ll have you know I made it two-hundred-and-forty-three seconds_ , she felt like saying, _and I can sit with whoever the heck I want without you judging me_.

Here’s what she said instead: “A date? Please, he wishes. He would have followed me home like a lost puppy if I didn’t agree to sit down with him for five minutes.”

Which, technically, was almost…the same.

She obviously didn’t care about what Spike might think or feel regarding what she’d just said, yet she found herself resolutely not looking his way as she stood up, Xander scoffing in amusement.

“Buffy, I’d like you to meet Richard. Richard, this is the infamous Buffy.”

She made a face at her friend, “Infamous?”

“Don’t worry,” Richard smiled, brightly. “He speaks most highly of you. Although he forgot to mention how beautiful you were.”

God, that was _super_ lame.

Yet Buffy found herself smiling back, that girly side of her she hadn’t let out in weeks – if not months – grateful for the compliment, no matter how cheesy.

When she dared a glance back at the table to see if Spike’s eyes had rolled all the way back into his skull, though, all she found was his empty seat.

…

Sometimes, he truly, deeply _hated_ the bitch.

He hated himself even more for feeling hurt that she’d dismiss him and humiliate him, over and over again, even though she’d made it quite clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

But what was a bloke’s to think, when one minute, she was punching him in the nose, and the next, she was talking to him as if they’d been drinking buddies for years?

A bloody twat, that what she was, and that’s exactly what he was going to tell her, too, after he punched _her_ in the nose. He’d get a migraine out of it, but it’ll be worth it, and really, after the way she’d brushed him off at the Bronze as if she’d been caught masturbating by her mum – rest her soul – she deserved much worse than that.

And so he paced in front of her building, waiting for her to show, aware that if he _hid_ instead, he’d have a better shot at taking her by surprise. But he was too pissed off not to be moving.

Spike sensed her long before he smelled her, the familiar pull deep in his gut putting an end to his restless pacing. He turned around, ready to pounce at her, physically or verbally, didn’t matter much.

One good look at her was enough to make him rethink his plan, though.

She was slowly making her way down the street, arms crossed, head bowed. Not crying or anything, yet he could sense her melancholy from where he stood, as if the Buffy he’d seen at the Bronze had been a mirage, an echo from a past self. She’d not been anywhere as chirpy as he’d known her to be, but she’d still been better than…this.

Looking gloom and dragging her feet, as if the weight of the world was literally pressing down on her.

Bloody martyr. As if _that_ was gonna work on him. As soon as she came near enough, he’d punch her, hard.

“You alright, pet?” is what he said instead.

To which she said…nothing.

Buffy did not acknowledge him at all, going as far as walking _right past him_ without a glance his way.

And just like that, he was pissed off all over again.

“Oi!” He called out as she reached her building’s door.

She sighed, tilting her head back. “No,” is all she said, inserting her key into the door.

She was halfway in when he grabbed the door and pulled, temporarily trapping her against the frame, earning him one glorious, irritated glower.

“ _He forgot to mention how beautiful you were_ ,” Spike mocked, using the voice he usually reserved for the Stevens of this world. “Really?” he said. “That’s the best you can do? Thought you’d learn your lesson with Captain Cardboard.”

She didn’t bother with an answer. Not a verbal one, anyway.

The headbutt she gave him _did_ hold some meaning.

If anything else, it was enough to make him release his pressure on the door, letting her slipped inside; he swiftly followed.

“Sore spot, uh?” He jeered, his voice echoing in the darkened hall. “Trust me when I say this one won’t be able to find _any_ of your spots either.”

For some reason, this jab did the trick, exasperating her enough to get her to spin around. “You know what, I am _done_ taking this kind of crap from you. I’ve just spent the last hour with people who talked at me instead of to me, the last thing I need is you trying to mock me and my relationships when really, what’s your track record? Drusilla, then _Harmony_? I mean sure, the first one was absolutely bonkers, but at least she had personality!”

Spike bit on his lower lip with a rumbly chuckle, bringing a hand to his heart. “Ouch.” His exaggerated pained scowl quickly turned into a smirk. “Almost got me there, Slayer.”

“If I wanted to ‘get you’, _William_ , I would have reminded you that losing your soul and turning into a demon wasn’t enough to make you any less pathetic. You’re still the same hopeless loser who can’t get a single woman to love you, no matter how much you grovel.”

Well, _ouch_.

He wasn’t smirking anymore, closing in on her with the intent to _maim_. “Come any closer and I’ll punch you,” she warned him, her voice low and tensed, beautifully alive and fiery.

He came closer and…well, it wasn’t like she hadn’t warned him. Her fist found his cheek, hard and painful; but he’d been expecting it, standing his ground, instinctively hitting back just as hard, chip be damned.

His punch connected with her face, sending her to the ground, and he recoiled, his entire body tensing as he waited for the vicious current to spread.

It never came.

He only had a second to get over his shock as she regained focus and stood back up, having the good sense to fake his usual groan of pain while clutching at his head. She came forward and kicked him in the chest, hard enough to send him crashing into the entrance door.

“Just stay away from me,” she told him, before turning around and making for the stairs.

Spike let her go, staying on the ground a few moments longer, his mind reeling. His first thought was that by some bloody miracle, the chip had stopped working, that he was… _free_. The hopeful thought didn’t last long, recent words already echoing in his pain-free head.

_If you were able to hit Buffy again, would you try to kill her?_

He needed to have himself a conversation with Willow Rosenberg.


	6. Chapter Six

He couldn’t blame Willow’s bird for the look she gave him when she opened the door and found him standing there; vampires didn’t usually call on you the way regular people did. Judging by her attire, she’d been about ready to get into bed, too.

“S-Spike?” She frowned in confusion.

“Evening, pet,” he said, almost cordially. “Is your girl ‘round?”

Still frowning, Tara called over her shoulder: “Will?”

“Mmm?” Came a muffled answer from inside the room, followed by the sound of spitting.

“It’s…for you,” was all Tara could say.

Willow came into view, toothbrush hanging from her mouth. Her curiosity quickly turned into apprehension when she met Spike’s eyes. “Oh,” she said, before stepping out of view again to go rinse her mouth. When she finally joined Tara at the door, she gave Spike a fake, innocent smile. “What’s up?”

He rose an eyebrow. “You tell me, Red. Just came from the Slayer’s place, where things got a li’l…rough, if you catch my drift.”

Willow’s forced smile faltered, and she nervously glanced at Tara, who seemed increasingly confused and uneasy. “Oh. Uhm, why don’t we…step outside to chat?”

Spike didn’t budge, leaning against the doorjamb, as much as the barrier allowed him to. “I say we stay right here instead, so your lady can hear all ‘bout what you’ve been up to.”

Willow swallowed hard, looking at Spike as if he’d just betrayed her, apparently forgetting that in order for betrayal to happen, _trust_ had to exist between two people in the first place.

“What’s going on?” Tara asked her girlfriend, looking at them in turn. “What do you mean, things got ‘rough’ with Buffy?”

“Got in a bit of an argument, the way we do,” Spike answered, casually. “Slayer punched me in the face, all normal so far. ‘til I punched her back.” Willow looked almost pale, now. “Care to wager on what happen’d then, Red?”

To his surprise, Tara was the one to answer, talking to her girl in a tone of voice he’d never heard from her. “You went and did it, didn’t you?” She asked, sounding like she already knew the answer. “You tweaked his chip, even though we agreed it was too dangerous.”

Willow did not look at her when she said: “Well, technically, I tweaked Buffy’s aura more than I tweaked his chip.” She had the stones to try and sound _funny_ , until she realised she was making things worse. “It’s okay, though, I swear! I was careful, and when I asked Spike, he said he wouldn’t try to kill her.”

“Hey,” Spike protested, almost offended. “You said naught about playing with the chip, all you did was ask some ‘hypothetical’ question.”

“Well, it _was_ hypothetical at the time. I obviously wasn’t going to go ahead with it if you’d said you were gonna kill her the first chance you got.”

Spike scoffed. “Oh, ‘cause you think I wouldn’t have lied about it, if I’d had a clue what you were up to?”

She looked uneasy at that, but she shook her head. “You’ve done a lot of good, this past year. And we all know you love her. I trusted my instincts.”

Tara had walked back inside the room, now pacing the way Spike had not an hour ago, in front of Buffy’s building. “This is so wrong,” she said, to no one in particular. Willow glanced her way, looking sheepish, obviously aware that she was in trouble.

“So what’s the deal,” Spike asked the wicca. “What d’you do to me?”

“Again, I did it to her more than to you.” Under his glare, she quickly continued: “Your chip, it’s…sensitive to frequencies, like most electronic devices. Actually, once I figured that out, it made the whole thing much simpler than I expected. One thing I learned when I was trying to save Tara a few weeks back is that auras and essences, they’re all about frequencies, too. And it’s all linked to the presence or absence of a soul, in the end. That’s why you can hurt demons, but not humans.”

He frowned. “You’re telling me that, according to the chip, Buffy’s become a soulless being?”

Red tilted her head from side to side. “That’s…reductive but, sort of? Like I said, your chip’s not been modified at all, it just…doesn’t read Buffy’s frequency the way it did before. If that makes sense.”

It did, unfortunately.

“Why would you even do that?”

They both looked at Tara, who’d stopped pacing, arms crossed; she looked equally incensed and distraught.

“I told you,” Willow said, softly. “Spike’s the only person who got her to fight. We talk to her almost every day, and we barely get a reaction out of her. But put Spike in a room, and she starts punching things.”

“Again, mostly just my face,” Spike chimed in.

“That’s good enough for me,” Willow said. “Look, I realize this is a bit…unorthodox. But you’re still neutered.” She didn’t give him a chance to protest. “The only person you can hit is Buffy, and she can more than defend herself. You said it yourself, you couldn’t kill her even when you wanted to.”

“And what were you hopin’ was gonna happen, exactly?” He asked, his ego somewhat bruised. “Me and the Slayer, meeting up for some fight therapy every Tuesday night?”

“Why not?” Willow shrugged. “To be honest, I thought that just being able to properly fight with someone might kick start something, and she’d go back to slaying.”

Although she had a point, Spike still wasn’t sure how this whole thing was going to play out for him. Buffy might just stake him the moment she found out he could hit her again. Looking away from the redhead, his gaze found the other witch, now standing in the middle of the room, pale and wary.

“Hey,” he called her out, his voice quieter, and she looked up at him. “Can’t say I’m really bothered with the right or wrong of this situation, I’m more worried about getting dusted for it but…your girl’s right about a couple things. Slayers need to fight, it’s part of who they are. And I wouldn’t hurt her. Much,” he added, causing Tara to avert her eyes without a word.

When he looked back at Willow, she averted her eyes, too. There was something phony about her guilty pout, though, and it rubbed him the wrong way. He shook his head with another scoff, pushing himself off the jamb, having heard enough. He’d almost made it to the end of the corridor when he was called back.

“Spike!”

He halted, turning around; Tara had left the room and was halfway down the corridor. This alone proved she still trusted Willow enough to have been successful with her spell, since he could very well have decided to put his chip to the test right now.

But Spike didn’t move, looking at her with a raised brow.

“Just…” Tara tried, sounding annoyed and disheartened, forcing herself to meet his eyes and hold his gaze. “D-don’t…take advantage of her, okay?” He tilted his head, frowning. “She’s…she’s vulnerable, right now. Probably more than you realize. Willow might not see the big p-picture, or understand what it means that you can physically hurt her, beyond the fighting. But I do.”

Spike did too, then. And he did not like what she was implying one bit.

He came closer, his face somber. To her credit, Tara held her ground, raising her chin and looking up at him when he’d come close enough to tower over her. “What makes you think I’d ever do something like that?” He asked, his voice low, almost rumbling.

She frowned, grimacing a little. “Are you telling me you never have?”

He clenched his jaw, unable to deny it. “Things are different, now,” he said.

_I’m different_ , he didn’t add.

“Then prove it,” Tara challenged him.

…

By the time Tara was walking back into their room, she was noticeably shaking.

She wasn’t sure if what she’d just done was brave or foolish, but she didn’t regret doing it. Someone had to look out for Buffy, since most people in her life still carried on acting like she shouldn’t have a say in anything that happened in it.

What she was sure of, however, was how _mad_ she felt at Willow. She did not even want to look at her right now, going straight for the bed.

“Tara…” Willow tried, feebly.

“Don’t,” Tara cut her off, pulling at the covers. “Unless you have more to say than what you’ve already said to him, you can save it.”

“I…” Willow tried again. “I know you don’t approve of the idea but…”

“That’s not even the point anymore!” Tara exclaimed, turning to face her, hating the fact that the expression on Willow’s face caused her heart to _hurt_. “It’s not just about you doing something to Buffy without her knowledge, or her _consent_. It’s about us, too, about how you decided to go behind my back after I told you how wrong it would be. So, no. I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.”

“I’m…sorry,” Willow said, quietly. Even incensed as she felt, Tara could tell she didn’t really mean it.

It didn’t matter, not anymore.

While Tara got herself into bed, resolutely turning her back on her girlfriend, Willow walked to their dresser, rummaging through one of the drawers. “Let’s just…forget it ever happened,” she said, quietly.

And a few seconds later, Tara forgot.

…

Buffy felt like she had travelled back in time. Like she’d been pulled back to three summers ago.

She was the same empty shell; hollow and lifeless, trapped in a small apartment, going through routinely tasks like a robot – although she’d seen the robot version of herself, and even _that_ had more life in it.

She didn’t even have a job to go to, this time around. Anya had done such a good job with her finances that she could spend the next six months lying in bed without anyone noticing.

Buffy despised this apathy of hers probably more than her friends did at this point, but apathy was…safe. It was easier to be numb than to let herself wallow in misery. ‘Good days’ and ‘bad days’ didn’t mean much, in her world. Only yesterday, she’d tricked herself into thinking she was doing better, yet she’d barely been able to leave her bed today, not even bothering with getting dressed…or eating much.

Her evening out at the Bronze had definitely triggered this relapse. And it hadn’t just been her friends’ behavior, equally well-meaning, annoying, and oblivious. The real cause of it was that big city fair they’d casually mentioned after she’d rejoined them, the one that always took place at this time of year.

Which meant it was July. Had been for a while, too, from the sound of it, but Buffy hadn’t really been paying attention to the date anymore.

Night had already fallen when there was a couple of odd knocks on her door, as if someone’s knuckles had barely grazed the wood. She ignored the sound, just as she ignored her instincts, which were telling her to grab a stake. Those had to be wonky, too; it wasn’t like vampires _knocked_.

The noise didn’t relent, becoming louder instead of fading away, until the knocking had turned into banging, eventually forcing her out of her warm cocoon, aware that she should deal with this before her neighbors started complaining.

She wasn’t exactly surprised to find Spike standing on the other side of the door, yet her fight-or-flight response was immediate, somewhat subdued in her current state of mind. With Spike, her response was always _fight_ , her whole body tensing as she inhaled sharply, the air briefly trapped in her lungs, filled with hints of cigarette, leather, and something else that was entirely Spike.

He didn’t move at all, barely even smirked, wisely deciding not to say anything, letting her start this exchange. She was about to ask her usual ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ query, but changed her mind as she opened her mouth.

“ _How_ the hell did you get in here?”

“Followed some li’l old lady in after I offered to hold the door open for her,” he shrugged. “Who knew having manners made people so careless?”

“And how long exactly did you wait for that opportunity to present itself?”

His smirk grew larger, apparently pleased that she was once again calling his bluff. “Not as long as I was expectin’.”

“What do you want, Spike?”

“Can’t a bloke just stop by without any ulterior motives?”

“Not when that bloke is you, no,” she answered.

“Just checking up on you, is all. You looked bummed last night.”

“Before or after I kicked your ass?”

“Please,” he huffed. “We both know kicking my ass is your own brand of pick-me-up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have anything better to do than stand in my corridor?”

“I could always stand inside your flat, pet, but ‘m not that delusional.”

“Could have fooled me.”

His smile had slowly faltered through their exchange, and she was pretty sure she knew why. She was on auto-pilot again, saying all the right words, but her voice sounded…off, even to her own ears. And for some exasperating reason, _Spike_ of all people was able to tell.

He was looking her over from head to toe, now, his stare anything but sleezy, his brow slightly furrowed. She couldn’t help feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny. She hadn’t looked at herself in a mirror today, but considering she’d just spent eighteen hours or so curled up in bed, she knew she’d looked better. She probably had pillow-wrinkles indented all over her face.

“What?” She eventually demanded, dragging his gaze back up to hers.

“You really ought to put some meat on, luv,” he said with a small, disapproving shake of his head, not a hint of teasing in his voice. “You’re all skin ‘n bones.”

And _there_ he went with the damn food again. “Why do you care so much about how meaty I am?” She asked, frustration fluttering in her chest. “It’s not like you were planning on eating me.”

There was a pause, followed by the slow rise of his eyebrow, his lips curling into another kind of smirk now, the teasing definitely making a reappearance in his gaze. Her own cheeks flooded with heat at her blunder – and a tiny bit at the thought itself, which she swiftly pushed away. _Away_ away.

“I don’t need to be mollycoddled by the undead,” Buffy stated firmly before he could reply anything to her previous comment.

“Obviously,” he said, poking at the barrier with a finger right at her midsection, which he couldn’t reach.

And yet, despite this invisible wall separating them, the gesture and his proximity caused a small shiver to travel up her spine. When she met his eyes again, his sly smile led her to think he was aware of it, too.

“I thought it hurt when you did that,” she found herself saying – deflecting – referring to the way his index finger was still poking at the barrier, an obvious tension in his hand.

“Only when I throw myself at it,” Spike said. “But if I go at it slowly…” the rest of his hand joined in, her body still only inches away from his touch, all five of his fingertips soon caressing the air, going up slowly indeed, up from her hips to her chest, tracing the curve of her neck, before going back down to her chest “…all it does is tingle a little.”

It tingled alright.

As if she’d been slapped by another invisible entity – sanity, maybe, Buffy took a step back, her grip on the door making it clear she intended on closing it.

“You’re gonna be alright, though?” He asked before she could shut it all the way. She sighed, reopening it just enough to look at him. He’d dropped the teasing, his head tilted. “Only asking ‘cause I know your Mum’s birthday’s around the corner.”

Her breath itched in her throat, feeling like a fist had most definitely passed the barrier and punched her in the stomach. Her Mom’s birthday was indeed only a couple of days away, a realization she’d made the previous night, the thought of it mainly responsible for her renewed apathy, today.

“How the hell do you know that?” She asked, a slight quiver in her voice, which had lowered and thickened, somehow managing to sound irritated with him.

Spike had stepped away from the door to lean back against the opposite wall, now lighting a cigarette. He took a long drag from it, the smoke slowly escaping from his nostrils. She watched as it diffused through the air, making its way to her doorway and beyond, unaffected by the barrier that kept him out.

“Stopped by your house ‘round that time, last summer,” he eventually said, quietly. “Found her and the Li’l Bit in the kitchen having some cake. Offered me a slice, too.” He looked down, taking another drag. “Always a decent lady, your Mum.”

Buffy’s throat clenched painfully, her eyes burning furiously. She wanted to be mad at him, for talking about them, for thinking he had any right at _all_ to mention them to her. As if she cared that he’d once shared a piece of cake with her Mom on her very last birthday. But the truth was, she was mad at herself more than she was mad at him.

_She_ had missed her Mom’s very last birthday.

Riley had surprised her with a ‘romantic weekend’ he’d booked weeks in advance; emphasis on the ‘ _surprised’_. He’d announced it the night before her Mom’s birthday, both Joyce and Dawn present in the room at the time, as Riley loved making these big gestures in front of an audience. He’d looked deeply wounded when Buffy suggested postponing it so she could be with her family instead.

Her Mom had quickly encouraged her to go, reminding her that it wouldn’t be the first birthday Buffy missed, reassuring her that they would do something together the following year.

“Go,” she’d said. “Have fun. Be young.”

“Don’t worry,” Dawn had added. “I’ll make her a cake.”

Too busy smirking at Buffy with a hint of sisterly superiority, Dawn hadn’t noticed that behind her, Joyce was pointing at herself with a shake of her head, mouthing that she would be in charge of the baking.

Buffy did not become aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks until they were already coming too fast for her to stop them. She let go of the door and turned away, unable to walk far as her body became wracked with sobs, a hand pressed hard against her mouth to try muffling the sound of her desolation.

_Weeks_ she’d gone without crying once, and this was what finally broke her; one simple memory of all that was gone and lost, combined with regrets for everything she should have done, but hadn’t.

She stood there crying for what felt like hours, almost bent in half as pain simultaneously seared and seeped from her entire being, unable to move while grief engulfed her, only staying on her feet by some miracle, until her throat and chest were sore from sobbing, her head throbbing and aching, her nose stuffed with goo, her face a sticky, feverish mess.

And yet, when the big of her tears had gone and she finally managed to take in a long, spasmodic breath, she breathed in more deeply than she had in weeks.

Another minute or two passed before she remembered _what_ had triggered her sudden episode. She couldn’t find it in herself to feel embarrassed for having broken down in front of him, remembering that it’d happened before, anyway, although not this…violently, maybe.

She wanted to hope he’d simply taken off, put off by this disgusting display of raw human emotions, but even as she walked the few steps to her kitchen, she could feel him, only feet away; a part of her had remained aware of him the whole time. And who was she kidding?

Spike was the _embodiment_ of raw human emotions, at times. Which was all kind of ironic, given his non-human status.

Buffy took her time at the sink, washing her face off with cold water, drinking quite a bit of it, too, trying to soothe her sore throat. By the time she was dabbing her flushed skin with a clean dishtowel, he still hadn’t moved.

“You’re not gonna leave, are you.” It wasn’t even a question.

“I’d rather not,” he answered honestly, his voice quiet, thicker than usual, too.

Buffy turned around to look at him. He’d walked back to the doorway, as close as he could stand with the barrier still in place, visibly leaning against it.

_You treat me like a man_ , he’d once told her. And she did. Probably because he so often behaved like one, the way he did now.

There was no pity in his eyes, yet he looked at her as if he’d been punched repeatedly, somewhere deep where it really hurt.

“Why don’t you come in, then.”

…

Spike almost _fell_ in.

It wasn’t just shock at being suddenly invited in, just bloody physics; he’d pretty much been pressed against that sodding barrier, its disappearance causing him to stumble forward a few steps.

Definitely not his smoothest entrance.

Buffy had already turned away, avoiding his gaze, slowly making her way around her small studio, picking up items as she went. She was tidying up.

For him.

“What’s the occasion, pet?” He asked, as non-threateningly as he could, still stunned that she’d let him in at all.

She shrugged her shoulders, her back to him, her next inhale still a bit wobbly, the way human breathing was for some time after a good cry. “I’d already invited you back in that night we tried saving Dawn,” she said simply, dumping her pile of dirty clothes into her washing machine. “That barrier was only there because I moved, not because I wanted you out.”

She carried on with her laundry as if her words hadn’t just caused his jaw to drop a little. Giving himself a moment to recover from everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes, from watching her breakdown to being allowed back into her life, Spike looked around the place.

There wasn’t much to look at. A plain, ordinary studio, divided in two-and-a-half sections, at that; one small kitchen, the rest serving as part bedroom, part living room. It looked a bit…clustered. She’d obviously crammed too many furniture from her old house in here, but he’d seen worse.

Hell, he lived in a _crypt_ , he wasn’t really one to judge.

Having finished with her laundry, Buffy had moved on to doing the dishes. For one impossible second, Spike pictured himself grabbing a dishtowel and helping her out. He shook his head a little at the domestic fantasy. Unfortunately, it didn’t get better when his eyes stopped on her bed, his imagination going haywire.

It was just too easy to imagine himself on it; on her. To imagine all the ways he would love her.

He could almost feel the sting her nails would ignite upon his back if he pressed her deep into that comforter, deep into that mattress; feel the tight, iron clasp of her legs around him, and the even tighter clasp of _her,_ picturing with perfect clarity the relief that would contort her traits as he freed her from her pain, if only briefly.

Spike span around, decidedly _not_ looking at that bed anymore, forcing himself to refocus. He’d been side-tracked quite dramatically from the initial purpose of his visit, not intending for one second to make Buffy breakdown when he’d mentioned her Mum and little sis.

She seemed to have regained most of her composure now, still busy with her dishes; there was no point in postponing this conversation any longer.

“I went and had a chat with Red, last night,” he told her.

“What about?” She asked, as if the two of them being all chummy inside her flat was a _thing_.

“Well,” he began tentatively, aware that there still was a not-so-small chance that she would stake him once she realised what Willow had done.” She got it into her head that all you need to snap out of your depression and go back to slaying is somebody to kick around.”

“Now that’s just silly,” she replied, sardonically. “I already have you, and it’s obviously not doing much.”

“She realised that, too,” he continued, bracing himself. “That’s why she went and tinkered with the chip. Turns out I can hit you back, now.”

Buffy stopped scrubbing. A few seconds passed before she shut the water off, turning around. Her eyes were still swollen and bloodshot, patches of pink colouring her pale cheeks; it made his insides _ache_.

“You’re joking, right?” She asked, quietly.

He shook his head. “’fraid not, pet. Her bird was not happy about it either. From the sound of it, they had some serious talk about how wrong it all was, yet Red went ahead and did it anyway. Wouldn’t be surprised if they split up over it, to be honest.”

Buffy shook her head in confusion. “Willow…deactivated your chip?” She asked, her voice a bit too Slayer-like all of a sudden, her face closing up as her expression darkened. He could see and sense her body tensing, causing him to frown.

“Not exactly,” Spike said, deciding it would be wiser not to mention how Willow had apparently tweaked _her_ more than him. “From what I gathered, it just doesn’t work on you, specifically. Remember when you hit me last night and I hit you back? Well, her spell worked.”

She looked _very_ Slayer-like, now, her face stern, her body poised. “Why should I believe you?”

All it took was one step forward, and he was close enough to do what he’d been itching to do for months – punch her in the nose.

He’d held back, though, barely putting any force into the blow, not enough to damage anything. It was still enough for her head to snap back…and for her to realise she was the only one who’d gasped in pain.

Until she straightened up and hit him right back, that was; straight in the face, too.

The blow caused him to stumble a couple of steps backward. He stayed there, not making any attempt at hitting her again, having proven his point. He was mostly grateful she didn’t seem to have any stake handy.

“Is this some kind of sick game?” Buffy asked, sounding and looking more incensed by the second. “Am I gonna find out you had the chip removed, and that really, you’re just back to feeding on humans?” Before he could say anything, she went on: “Is this how you get yourself off before you go for the kill?”

Spike bit down on his lip, which had split open under her sweet touch, sucking at his own blood with a bit of a leer. “I know you’ve got good reasons to think all of us vampires are sadistic bastards who love toying with our food before we eat it, but that was never my style. Not since Angelus stopped whispering in my ear, anyway.” He watched as she swallowed hard, having pressed right on her sore spot. “And as far as me feeding on humans goes…I haven’t even _tried_ ,” he said, a hint of reproach in his voice, although he knew she would never grasp what it meant, for him not to instinctively go for the hunt.

From the look on her face, she still associated the lack of chip with him immediately reverting back to his old ways, as if everything he’d done for her and her family these past few months had been a veil of smoke.

“You should have told me sooner,” was all she could say next, her voice tensed with cold anger.

“Sooner?” He repeated. “I just bloody learned about it!”

“No, you didn’t! You’ve known since last night, you’ve said it yourself. You already knew when you stood there and I…” Her voice faded. “I can’t believe you waited until I’d invited you in to pull this crap on me.”

He came closer, almost invading her personal space, aware that he only had moments before she hit him again, probably kicked him out for good this time, if she didn’t go for some good ol’ beheading. She’d be on the phone with Willow within five minutes, asking her to come revoke his invitation again, instead of demanding some explanation.

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d have snapped your neck while you were doing the bloody laundry,” he told her, his voice low, almost husky. “I came here to tell you about it, when I could have kept it a secret. And I never asked you to let me in, you did that all on your own. Just remember that when you did it, you weren’t thinking with your head,” he actually made to poke at her stomach as he said the words, indicating her gut, stopping when his fingertip brushed her top. “Maybe you should trust that, once in a while.”

He stepped away before she could get a chance at hitting him, walking all the way back to the open door. He leaned heavily against the jamb while she leaned back against the sink, arms crossed, the two of them glowering at each other.

“Fine,” Buffy said after a long pause. “You could have attacked me when I had my guards down, and you didn’t.” She still didn’t look or sound particularly pleased, but now that it seemed obvious he wasn’t going to abuse of his ‘reinstated hitting privileges’, she had relaxed slightly.  “What the hell was Willow thinking, though?”

Spike shrugged, getting another cigarette out. “Bite me,” he said, flicking his lighter open, inhaling deep. “From the sound of it, she thinks we should be sparing buddies or som’thing.”

“I’ve told you I don’t do that anymore, I’ve –”

“Yeah, you’ve quit,” he finished for her, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Not really her point, though.” After a pause, he asked: “How d’you feel, after that big cry of yours?” When he saw her changing expression, he quickly added: “’m not pocking fun at you, luv. How do you feel, physical aches aside? Kinda better, yeah?”

She remained silent, having averted her eyes, her arms tightening around herself as her cheeks became a bit flushed again.

“That’s ‘cause you let it all out for a bit. Allowed your body to get some release, is all,” he continued. “I reckon it’d be the same with fighting. I get why you won’t slay anymore. But this is different. You’re still built for it, whether you want it or not. And by keeping it all in…you’re like a pressure cooker without an air vent.”

Buffy looked up and stared at him, her face slowly scrunching up in a frown. “Are you offering to be that little black knob on top of the lid that rattles around and whines a lot?” Her cheeky tone was wonderfully familiar, and he could have sworn he saw the corner of her mouth quiver a little.

Spike scoffed out some smoke with a shrug of his shoulder. “Just offerin’ to help, pet. Feel free to compare me to any kitchen appliances of your liking.”

“You’re the one who started with the pressure cooker analogy.”

“Yeah, well – ”

“Didn’t you use to be a poet?”

“Alright, Slayer. You win,” he gave up, stomping his cigarette against the bottom of his boot, before pushing himself off the jamb. He wasn’t even a little bit upset, but he knew when it was time to make an exit.

By some bloody miracle, she was joking around _after_ she’d sobbed her heart out in front of him, having also just learned he could hit her again. If he’d ever had any luck, it was sure to have ran out by now.

He grabbed the door on his way out, turning to look at her. She seemed…calmer.

A bit more alive, too.

“Think about it, yeah? Even if you don’t wanna fight…‘m a good listener.”

Her nod, when it came, was almost imperceptible.

But it was there.

 


End file.
